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BOHEMIAN  PARIS 
OF  TO-DAY 


By  W.  C.  Morrow 

¥ 
A   MAN:     HIS    MARK 

Ornamentally  Bound,  Deckle  Edges,  $i.2S 
A  romance  of  most  absorbing  interest 

THE  APE,  THE  IDIOT, 
AND     OTHER     PEOPLE 

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"  The  touch  throughout  is  unmistakably  that  of  a  writer  of 
superior  gifts  and  superior  art." — Chicago  Journal 

"  That  he  has  a  vivid  imagination  is  proved  by  the  variety  and 
extravagant  character  of  the  plots  which  give  more  or  less  sub- 
stance to  the  dozen  odd  fictions  in  this  volume.  All  of  them  are 
entertaining,  and  they  may  be  heartily  recommended  to  readers 
who,  seeking  diversion  out  of  the  common,  relish  it  when  highly 
spiced." — Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin 

"  We  can  confidently  commend  this  as  one  of  the  books  that 
ought  to  be  read  by  those  who  are  looking  out  for  '  something 
new'  that  is  worth  finding." — Buffalo  Commercial 


IN  THE  CABARET   DES   NOCTAMBULES 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 
OF    TO-DAY 


WRITTEN    BY 


W.   C.  MORROW 

From  Notes  by  Edouard  Cucuel 

ILLUSTRATED    BY 

EDOUARD  CUCUEL 


PHILADELPHIA   &    LONDON 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

1900 


Copyright,  1899, 

BY 

J.  B.  LippiNcoTT  Company. 


ELECmOTYPED   AND    PRINTED   BY   J.   B.  LiPPINCOTT  COMPANY,   PhILADELPHM,  U.&A. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction u 

Our  Studio .•     •     •  ^5 

The  £;cole  des  Beaux-Arts 37 

Taking  Pictures  to  the  Salon 67 

Bal  des  Quat'z'  Arts 79 

Le  Boul'  Mich' 109 

Bohemian  Cafes 147 

Le  Cabaret  du  Soleil  d'Or 171 

The  Cafe  Procope 207 

Le  Moulin  de  La  Galette 221 

A  Night  on  Montmartre 249 

Moving  in  the  Quartier  Latin 315 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


In  the  Cabaret  des  Noctambules Frontispiece 

Coming  from  the  Bal  Bullier Title-page 

Our  Arrival  in  Paris 15 

From  the  Hotel  Window 17 

Bishop  was  Our  Cook .   .  19 

Our  Concierge 24 

Our  Court- Yard 27 

The  Laundry  Girl 31 

From  the  Hotel  Window 36 

Typical  Students  of  the  Boul'  Mich' 37 

Brother  Musketeers  of  the  Brush  and  a  New  Model  ....  38 

A  Paint-Brush  Duel  at  the  Beaux-Arts 45 

The  Atelier  G6r5me  going  out  to  drink  at  the  Nouveaux's 

Expense 47 

GerQme  criticising  Bishop's  Work 51 

Italian  Models  in  Front  of  Colarossi's 55 

Rest  Time  for  the  Model 56 

A  New  Model  at  GerSme's  Atelier 61 

Susanne,  the  Famous  Parisian  Model 64 

A  NouvEAU 66 

An  English  Art  Student 67 

The  Last  Moments  and  an  Unfinished  Picture      73 

The  Upper  Decks  of  the  Omnibuses  were  Crowded 75 

Bal  des  Quat'z'  Arts 79 

The  Moulin  Rouge  on  the  Night  of  the  Ball     81 

Two  Costumes    .       84 

Ticket  for  the  Bal  des  Quat'z'  Arts 88 

LfeANDRE  AS  Queen  Victoria 89 

The  Grand  Cavalcade 91 

Bellona 93 

La  Danse  du  Ventre 97 

The  Gerome  Atelier loi 

From  the  Ball 104 

Coming  Home  at  seven  a.m 105 

Susanne 108 

Butterflies  of  the  Caf^ 109 

7 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Sweetmeat  Pedler no 

Seven  p.m.  at  the  Cakk  D'Harcourt  (Some  Types^ iii 

Entrance  to  Bal  Bullier 115 

Four  Dashing  Young  Women ' 117 

Spectators  at  the  Bal  Bullier 119 

He  has  come  to  Paris  to  study  Law 122 

The  Can-Can  at  the  Bal  Bullier 123 

How  Negro  Students  are  welcomed 126 

Encore  des  Demi-Mondaines 127 

From  the  Cook-Shop 128 

One  a.m.  at  the  Caf£  Vachette 129 

A  CAFi  Fight 131 

"  P'TITE   FeMME  a   FaIRE" I33 

"Payez-moi  UN  Bock,  MoN  CnfeRi?" 135 

Having  Fun  with  Bi-Bi-dans-la  Pur^e 137 

Sleepy  All-Nighters  at  the  Cafe  Barrette 143 

Long-Haired  Students  of  the  Boul'  Mich' 146 

Maison  Darblay 147 

La  Caisse 148 

Madame  Darblay,  Famous  for  her  Beans 149 

Some  of  the  Actresses  at  Maison  Darblay           151 

Mademoiselle  Brunerye,  of  the  Theatre  GAiETfe,  Montparnasse  153 

The  Leading  Man  at  the  Gaiete 154 

The  Artist,  the  Sculptor,  the  Blind  Musician,  his  Wife  .   .   .  156 

The  Poet  and  his  Mistress 157 

Monsieur  Darblay  cutting  Bread  in  Sou  Lengths 160 

The  Heavy  Villain 161 

"  The  Hole  in  the  Wall"  and  Madame  Morel 167 

The  Musical  Student  at  "The  Hole  in  the  Wall" 169 

In  Heavy  Bohemia 171 

The  Lady  in  Black 175 

A  Hunter  of  Scraps 177 

The  Interior  of  the  Soleil  d'Or , 181 

The  Pianist 186 

"  II  feTAiT  une  Fois" 187 

Bl-Bl-DANS-LA-PURfeE I96 

The  Sketch  Artist 200 

An  Outcast  of  the  Boulevards 204 

UN   LlTlfeRATEUR    DE    BOHEME 2o6 

Paul  Verlaine   at   Voltaire's    Favorite    Table   in  the  Cafe 


Procope 


209 


Interior  of  the  CAFfe  Procope 215 

One  of  the  Types 221 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 


227 


Le  Moulin  de  la  Galette 

The  Waltz  at  Le  Moulin  de  la  Galette 233 

In  the  Garden 244 

The  Proprietor 248 

montmartre 249 

Tourists  and  Guide  in  Paris 250 

Entrance  to  "  Heaven" 256 

He  serves  Beer  in  "  Heaven" 257 

The  Cabaret  of  "  Heaven"     259 

The  Golden  Porcus 261 

In  the  Cabaret  of  Death 266 

A  Waiter  in  the  Cabaret  of  Death 267 

In  the  Passage  to  the  Death  Chamber 270 

In  the  Death  Chamber 273 

The  Entrance  to  "  Hell" 277 

The  Cabaret  of  "  Hell" 283 

In  Aristide  Bruant's  Cabaret 287 

Aristide  Bruant  reciting  One  of  his  Verses      293 

A  Young  Poet-Laureate 296 

In  the  CAFfe  DU  Conservatoire 297 

Marcel  Legay 299 

J.  Delarbre 300 

Gustave  Corbet 301 

HABITUiS   OF  the   CAFfe   DU    CONSERVATOIRE 303 

Cabaret  des  Quat'z'  Arts 311 

Marius  Geffroy 314 

A  Student  moving 315 

A  Musicale  at  the  Studio 319 

Studio  Hunting 321 


INTRODUCTION 

THIS  volume  is  written  to  show  the  life  of  the 
students  in  the  Paris  of  to-day.  It  has  an 
additional  interest  in  opening  to  inspection 
certain  phases  of  Bohemian  life  in  Paris  that  are 
shared  both  by  the  students  and  the  public,  but  that 
are  generally  unfamiliar  to  visitors  to  that  wonderful 
city,  and  even  to  a  very  large  part  of  the  city's  popu- 
lation itself.  It  depicts  the  under-side  of  such  life  as 
the  students  find, — the  loose,  unconventional  life  of 
the  humbler  strugglers  in  literature  and  art,  with  no 
attempt  to  spare  its  salient  features,  its  poverty  and 
picturesqueness,  and  its  lack  of  adherence  to  gener- 
ally accepted  standards  of  morals  and  conduct. 

As  is  told  in  the  article  describing  that  incompara- 
bly brilliant  spectacle,  the  ball  of  the  Four  Arts,  ex- 
treme care  is  taken  to  exclude  the  public  and  admit 
only  artists  and  students,  all  of  whom  must  be  prop- 
erly accredited  and  fully  identified.  It  is  well  under- 
stood that  such  a  spectacle  would  not  be  suitable  for 
any  but  artists  and  students.  It  is  given  solely  for 
their  benefit,  and  with  the  high  aim,  fully  justified  by 
the  experience  of  the  masters  who  direct  the  students, 
that  the  event,  with  its  marvellous  brilliancy,  its  splen- 
did artistic  effects,  and  its  freedom  and  abandon,  has 
a  stimulating  and  broadening  effect  of  the  greatest 


INTRODUCTION 

value  to  art.  The  artists  and  students  see  in  these 
annual  spectacles  only  grace,  beauty,  and  majesty ; 
their  training  in  the  studios,  where  they  learn  to  re- 
gard models  merely  as  tools  of  their  craft,  fits  them, 
and  them  alone,  for  the  wholesome  enjoyment  of  the 
great  ball. 

It  is  a  student  that  presents  the  insight  which  this 
volume  gives  into  the  life  of  the  students  and  other 
Bohemians  of  Paris.  It  is  set  forth  with  the  frank- 
ness of  a  student.  Coming  from  such  a  source,  and 
having  such  treatment,  it  will  have  a  special  charm 
and  value  for  the  wise. 

The  students  are  the  pets  of  Paris.  They  lend  to 
the  city  a  picturesqueness  that  no  other  city  enjoys. 
So  long  as  they  avoid  riots  aimed  at  a  government 
that  may  now  and  then  offend  their  sense  of  right, 
their  ways  of  living,  their  escapades,  their  noisy  and 
joyous  manifestations  of  healthy  young  animal  life, 
are  good-naturedly  overlooked.  Underneath  such  a 
life  there  lies,  concealed  from  casual  view,  another  life 
that  they  lead, — one  of  hard  work,  of  hope,  of  aspira- 
tion, and  often  of  pinching  poverty  and  cruel  self-de- 
nial. The  stress  upon  them,  of  many  kinds,  is  great. 
The  utter  absence  of  an  effort  to  reorganize  their 
lives  upon  conventional  lines  is  from  a  philosophical 
belief  that  if  they  fail  to  pass  unscathed  through  it 
all,  they  lack  the  fine,  strong  metal  from  which  worthy 
artists  are  made. 

The  stranger  in  Paris  will  here  find  opened  to  him 
places  in  which  he  may  study  for  himself  the  Bohe- 
rnian  life  of  the  city  in  all  its  careless  disregard  of 


INTRODUCTION 

conventions.  The  cafes,  cabarets,  and  dance-halls 
herein  described  and  illustrated  have  a  charm  that 
wholesome,  well-balanced  minds  will  enjoy.  The 
drawings  for  the  illustrations  were  all  made  from  the 
actual  scenes  that  they  depict ;  they  partake  of  the 
engaging  frankness  of  the  text  and  of  its  purpose  to 
show  Bohemian  life  in  the  Paris  of  to-day  without 
any  effort  at  concealment. 

W.  C.  M. 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


OUR    STUDIO 


WE  were  in  wonderful  Paris  at  last — Bishop 
and  I — after  a  memorable  passage  full  of 
interest  from  New  Yorlc  to  Havre.  Years  of 
hard  work  were  ahead 
of  us,  for  Bishop  would 
be  an  artist  and  I  a 
sculptor.  For  two  weeks 
we  had  been  lodg- 
ing temporarily  in 
the  top  of  a  com- 
fortable  little 
hotel,  called  the 
Grand  something 
(most  of  the  Pari-  \\\\\} 
sian  hotels  are 
Grand),  the  window  of 
which  commanded  a  su- 
perb view  of  the  great 
city,  the  vaudeville  play- 
house of  the  world. 
Pour  la  premiere  fois  the 
dazzle  and  glitter  had 
burst  upon  us,  confusing  and  incomprehensible  at 
first,  but  now  assuming  form  and  coherence.     If  we 

15 


OUR    ARRIVAL    IN    PARIS 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

could  have  had  each  a  dozen  eyes  instead  of  two,  or 
less  greed  to  see  and  more  patience  to  learn  ! 

Day  by  day  we  had  put  off  the  inevitable  evil 
of  finding  a  studio.  Every  night  found  us  in  the 
cheapest  seats  of  some  theatre,  and  often  we  lolled 
on  the  terraces  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  watching  the 
pretty  girls  as  they  passed,  their  silken  skirts  saucily 
pulled  up,  revealing  dainty  laces  and  ankles.  From 
the  slippery  floor  of  the  Louvre  galleries  we  had 
studied  the  masterpieces  of  David,  Rubens,  Rem- 
brandt, and  the  rest ;  had  visited  the  Pantheon,  the 
Musee  Cluny ;  had  climbed  the  Eiffel  Tower,  and 
traversed  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  the  Champs- 
Elysees.  Then  came  the  search  for  a  studio  and 
the  settling  to  work.  It  would  be  famous  to  have  a 
little  home  of  our  very  own,  where  we  could  have 
little  dinners  of  our  very  own  cooking  ! 

It  is  with  a  shudder  that  I  recall  those  eleven  days 
of  ceaseless  studio-hunting.  We  dragged  ourselves 
through  miles  of  Quartier  Latin  streets,  and  up 
hundreds  of  flights  of  polished  waxed  stairs,  behind 
puffing  concierges  in  carpet  slippers,  the  puffing 
changing  to  grumbling,  as,  dissatisfied,  the  concierges 
followed  us  down  the  stairs.  The  Quartier  abounds 
with  placards  reading,  "  Atelier  d' Artiste  a  Louer  !" 
The  rentals  ranged  from  two  hundred  to  two  thou- 
sand francs  a  year,  and  the  sizes  from  cigar-boxes  to 
barns.  But  there  was  always  something  lacking. 
On  the  eleventh  day  we  found  a  suitable  place  on 
the  sixth  (top)  floor  of  a  quaint  old  house  in  a  pas- 
sage off  the  Rue  St.-Andre-des-Arts.     There  were 

l6 


OUR   STUDIO 

overhead  and  side  lights,  and  from  the  window  a 
noble  view  of  Paris  over  the  house-tops.  A  room 
of  fair  size  joined  the  studio,  and  from  its  vine-laced 
window  we  could  look  into  the  houses  across  the 


FROM    THE    HOTEL    WINDOW 


court,  and  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  court  as  well. 
The  studio  walls  were  delightfully  dirty  and  low  in 
tone,  and  were  covered  with  sketches  and  cartoons 
in  oil  and  charcoal.  The  price  was  eight  hundred 
francs  a  year,  and  from  the  concierge's  eloquent 
2  17 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

catalogue  of  its  charms  it  seemed  a  great  bargain. 
The  walls  settled  our  fate, — we  took  the  studio. 

It  was  one  thing  to  agree  on  the  price  and  an- 
other to  setde  the  details.  Our  French  was  ailing, 
and  the  concierge's  French  was — concierges'  French. 
Bishop  found  that  his  pet  theory  that  French  should 
be  spoken  with  the  hands,  head,  and  shoulders  car- 
ried weak  spots  which  a  concierge  could  discover ; 
and  then,  being  somewhat  mercurial,  he  began  floun- 
dering in  a  mixture  of  French  and  English  words 
and  French  and  American  gestures,  ending  in  de- 
spair with  the  observation  that  the  concierge  was  a 

d fool.     At  the  end  of  an  hour  we  had  learned 

that  we  must  sign  an  iron-bound,  government- 
stamped  contract,  agreeing  to  occupy  the  studio  for 
not  less  than  one  year,  to  give  six  months'  notice  of 
our  leaving,  and  to  pay  three  months'  rental  in  ad- 
vance, besides  the  taxes  for  one  year  on  all  the  doors 
and  windows,  and  ten  francs  or  more  to  the  con- 
cierge.    This  was  all  finally  settled. 

As  there  was  no  running  water  in  the  rooms  (such 
a  luxury  being  unknown  here),  we  had  to  supply 
our  needs  from  a  clumsy  old  iron  pump  in  the  court, 
and  employ  six  flights  of  stairs  in  the  process. 

Then  the  studio  had  to  be  furnished,  and  there 
came  endless  battles  with  the  furniture  dealers  in 
the  neighborhood,  who  kept  their  stock  replenished 
from  the  goods  of  bankrupt  artists  and  suspended 
menages.  These  marchands  de  meubles  are  a  wily 
race,  but  Bishop  pursued  a  plan  in  dealing  with 
them  that  worked  admirably.     He  would    enter   a 

i8 


BISHOP    WAS    OUR    COOK 


OUR   STUDIO 

shop  and  price  an  article  that  we  wanted,  and  then 
throw  up  his  hands  in  horror  and  leave  the  place  as 
though  it  were  haunted  with  a  plague.  The  dealer 
would  always  come  tumbling  after  him  and  offer 
him  the  article  for  a  half  or  a  third  of  the  former 
price.  In  this  way  Bishop  bought  chairs,  tables,  a 
large  easel,  beds,  a  studio  stove,  book-shelves,  linen, 
drapings,  water  pitchers  and  buckets,  dishes,  cooking 
utensils,  and  many  other  things,  the  cost  of  the 
whole  being  less  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  francs, — 
and  thus  we  were  established.  The  studio  became 
quite  a  snug  and  hospitable  retreat,  in  spite  of  the 
alarming  arrangement  that  Bishop  adopted,  "to  help 
the  composition  of  the  room."  His  favorite  cast, 
the  Unknown  Woman,  occupied  the  place  of  honor 
over  his  couch,  where  he  could  see  it  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning,  when  the  dawn,  stealing  through  the 
skylight,  brought  out  those  strange  and  subtle  fea- 
tures which  he  swore  inspired  him  from  day  to  day. 
My  room  was  filled  with  brilliant  posters  by  Cheret 
and  Mucha  and  Steinlen — they  were  too  bold  and 
showy  for  the  low  tone  of  Bishop's  studio.  It  all 
made  a  pretty  picture. — the  dizzy  posters,  the  solemn 
trunks,  the  books,  the  bed  with  its  gaudy  print 
coverings,  and  the  little  crooked-pane  window  hung 
with  bright  green  vines  that  ran  thither  from  a  box 
in  the  window  of  an  adjoining  apartment.  And  it 
was  all  completed  by  the  bright  faces  of  three  pretty 
seamstresses,  who  sat  sewing  every  day  at  their 
window  across  the  passage. 

Under  our  housekeeping  agreement  Bishop  was 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

made  cook,  and  I  chambermaid  and  water-carrier. 
It  was  Bishop's  duty  to  obey  the  alarm  clock  at  six 
every  morning  and  light  the  fire,  while  I  went  down 
for  water  at  the  pump,  and  for  milk  at  the  stand 
beside  the  court  entrance,  where  fat  Madame  Giote 
sold  cafe-au-lait  and  lait  froid  ou  chaud,  from  a  sou's 
worth  up.  Then,  after  breakfast,  I  did  the  chamber 
work  while  Bishop  washed  the  dishes.  Bishop  could 
make  for  breakfast  the  most  delicious  coffee  and 
flapjacks  and  omelette  in  the  whole  of  Paris.  By 
eight  o'clock  all  was  in  order ;  Bishop  was  smoking 
his  pipe  and  singing  "  Down  on  the  Farm"  while 
working  on  his  life  study,  and  I  was  off  to  my 
modelling  in  clay. 

Bishop  soon  had  the  hearts  of  all  the  shop-keepers 
in  the  neighborhood.  The  baker's  dimple-cheeked 
daughter  never  worried  if  the  scales  hung  a  little  in 
his  favor,  at  the  boucherie  he  was  served  with  the 
choicest  cuts  of  meat,  and  the  fried-potato  women 
called  him  "mon  fils"  and  fried  a  fresh  lot  of  potatoes 
for  him.  Even  Madame  Tonneau.  the  marchande  de 
tabac,  saw  that  he  had  the  freshest  packages  in  the 
shop.  Often,  when  I  was  returning  home  at  night, 
I  encountered  him  making  cheerily  for  the  studio, 
bearing  bread  by  the  yard,  his  pockets  bulging  with 
other  material  for  dinner.  Ah,  he  was  a  wonderful 
cook,  and  we  had  marvellous  appetites  !  So  famous 
did  he  soon  become  that  the  models  (the  lady  ones, 
of  course)  were  eager  to  dine  avec  nous  ;  and  when 
they  did  they  helped  to  set  the  table,  they  sewed 
buttons  on  our  clothes,  and  they  made  themselves 


OUR   STUDIO 

agreeable  and  perfectly  at  home  with  that  charming- 
grace  which  is  so  peculiarly  French.  Ah,  those  were 
jolly  times  ! 

The  court,  or,  more  properly,  le  passage,  on  which 
our  window  looked  was  a  narrow  little  thoroughfare 
leading  from  the  Rue  St. -Andre  des- Arts  to  the 
Boulevard  St. -Germain.  It  bore  little  traffic,  but 
was  a  busy  way  withal.  It  had  iron-workers'  shops, 
where  hot  iron  was  beaten  into  artistic  lamps,  grills, 
and  bed-frames  ;  a  tinsmith's  shop  ;  a  blanchisserie, 
where  our  shirts  were  made  white  and  smooth  by 
the  pretty  blanchisseuses  singing  all  day  over  their 
work  ;  a  wine-cellar,  whose  barrels  were  eternally 
blocking  one  end  of  the  passage  ;  an  embossed 
picture-card  factory,  where  twoscore  women,  with 
little  hammers  and  steel  dies,  beat  pictures  into 
cards  ;  a  furniture  shop,  where  everything  old  and 
artistic  was  sold,  the  Hotel  du  Passage,  and  a  book- 
binder's shop. 

Each  of  the  eight  buildings  facing  the  passage  was 
ruled  by  a  formidable  concierge,  who  had  her  dark 
little  living  apartments  near  the  entrances.  These 
are  the  despots  of  the  court,  and  their  function  is  to 
make  life  miserable  for  their  lodgers.  When  they 
are  not  doing  that  they  are  eternally  scrubbing  and 
polishing.  They  are  all  married.  M.  Maye,  le  mari 
de  notre  concierge,  is  a  tailor.  He  sits  at  the  window 
and  mends  and  sews  all  day  long,  or  acts  as  concierge 
when  his  wife  is  away.  The  husband  of  the  con- 
cierge next  door  is  a  sergeant  de  ville  at  night,  but 
in  the  early  mornings  as,  in  a  soiled  blouse,  he  emp- 

23 


I^OHEMIAN    PARIS 


ties  ash  cans,  he  looks  very  unlike  the  personage 
dressed  at  night  in  a  neat  blue  uniform  and  wearing 
a  short  sword  Another  concierge's  husband  fait  des 
courses — runs  errands — for  sufficient  pay. 

Should  you  fail  to  clean  your  boots  on  the  mat, 
and  thus  soil  the  glossy  stairs,  have  a  care ! — a  con- 
cierge's tongue 
has  inherited  the 
warlike  character- 
istics of  the  Cae- 
sars. Rugs  and 
carpets  must  not 
be  shaken  out  of 
the  windows  after 
nine  o'clock. 
Ashes  and  other 
refuse  must  be 
thrown  into  the 
big  bin  of  the 
house  not  later 
than  seven. 
Sharp  at  eleven 
in  the  evening 
the  lights  are  ex- 
tinguished and 
the  doors  locked 
for  the  night ;  and  then  all  revelry  must  immediately 
cease.  Should  you  arrive  en  retard, — that  is,  after 
eleven, — you  must  ring  the  bell  violently  until  the 
despot,  generally  after  listening  for  an  hour  to  the 
bell,  unlocks  the  catch  from  her  couch.     Then  when 

24 


OUR   CONCIERGE 


OUR   STUDIO 

you  close  the  door  and  pass  her  lodge  you  must 
call  out  your  name.  If  you  are  out  often  or  till 
very  late,  be  prepared  for  a  lecture  on  the  crime 
of  breaking  the  rest  of  hard-working  concierges. 
After  the  day's  work  the  concierges  draw  their  chairs 
out  into  the  court  and  gossip  about  their  tenants. 
The  nearer  the  roof  the  lodger  the  less  the  respect  he 
commands.  Would  he  not  live  on  a  lower  floor  if  he 
were  able  ?    And  then,  the  top  floor  gives  small  tips  ! 

It  is  noticeable  that  the  entresol  and  premiers 
etages  are  clean  and  highly  polished,  and  that  the 
cleanliness  and  polish  diminish  steadily  toward  the 
top,  where  they  almost  disappear.  Ah,  les  con- 
cierges !     But  what  would  Paris  be  without  them  ? 

Directly  beneath  us  an  elderly  couple  have  apart- 
ments. Every  morning  at  five  the  old  gentleman 
starts  French  oaths  rattling  through  the  court  by 
beating  his  rugs  out  of  his  window.  At  six  he  rouses 
the  ire  of  a  widow  below  him  by  watering  his  plants 
and  incidentally  drenching  her  bird-cages.  Not  long 
ago  she  rose  in  violent  rebellion,  and  he  hurled  a 
flower  pot  at  her  protruding  head.  It  smashed  on 
her  window-sill ;  she  screamed  "  Murder  !"  and  the 
whole  court  was  in  an  uproar.  The  concierges  and 
the  old  gentleman's  pacific  wife  finally  restored  order 
— till  the  next  morning. 

Next  to  my  room  are  an  elderly  lady  and  her 
sweet,  sad-faced  daughter.  They  are  very  quiet  and 
dignified,  and  rarely  fraternize  with  their  neighbors. 
It  is  their  vine  that  creeps  over  to  my  window,  and 

it  is  carefully  tended  by  the  daughter.      And  all  the 

25 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

doves  and  sparrows  of  the  court  come  regularly  to 
eat  out  of  her  hand,  and  a  lively  chatter  they  have 
over  it.  The  ladies  are  the  widow  and  daughter  of  a 
once  prosperous  stock  broker  on  the  Bourse,  whom 
an  unlucky  turn  of  the  wheel  drove  to  poverty  and 
suicide. 

The  three  seamstresses  over  the  way  are  the  sun- 
shine of  the  court.  They  are  not  so  busy  sewing 
and  singing  but  that  they  find  time  to  send  arch 
glances  toward  our  window,  and  their  blushes  and 
smiles  when  Bishop  sends  them  sketches  of  them 
that  he  has  made  from  memory  are  more  than 
remunerative. 

A  young  Scotch  student  from  Glasgow,  named 
Cameron,  has  a  studio  adjoining  ours.  He  is  a  fine. 
jovial  fellow,  and  we  usually  assist  him  to  dispose 
of  his  excellent  brew  of  tea  at  five  o'clock.  Every 
Thursday  evening  there  was  given  a  musical  chez 
lui,  in  which  Bishop  and  I  assisted  with  mandolin  and 
guitar,  while  Cameron  played  the  flute.  For  these 
occasions  Cameron  donned  his  breeks  and  kilt,  and 
danced  the  sword-dance  round  two  table-knives 
crossed.  The  American  songs  strike  him  as  being 
strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  cannot  under- 
stand the  negro  dialect,  and  wonders  if  America  is 
filled  with  negroes  and  cotton  plantations  ;  but  he 
is  always  delighted  with  Bishop's  "  Down  on  the 
Farm." 

Life  begins  at  five  o'clock  in  our  court.     The  old 

gentleman  beats  his  rugs,  the  milk-bottles  rattle,  the 

bread-carts  rumble,  Madame  Giote  opens  her  milk- 

26 


OUR  COURT-YARD 


OUR   STUDIO 

stand,  and  the  concierges  drag  the  ash-cans  out  into 
the  court,  where  a  drove  of  rag-pickers  fall  upon 
them.  These  gleaners  are  a  queer  lot.  Individuals 
and  families  pursue  the  quest,  each  with  a  distinct 
purpose.  One  will  seek  nothing  but  bones,  glass, 
and  crockery  ;  another  sifts  the  ashes  for  coal  ;  an- 
other takes  only  paper  and  rags  ;  another  old  shoes 
and  hats  ;  and  so  on,  from  can  to  can,  none  inter- 
fering with  any  of  the  others.  The  dogs  are  the  first 
at  the  bins.  They  are  regularly  organized  in  working 
squads,  travelling  in  fours  and  fives.  They  are  quite 
adept  at  digging  through  the  refuse  for  food,  and 
they  rarely  quarrel ;  and  they  never  leave  one  bin 
for  another  until  they  have  searched  it  thoroughly. 

The  swish  of  water  and  a  coarse  brush  broom  an- 
nounces the  big,  strong  woman  who  sweeps  the  gut- 
ters of  the  Rue  St.-Andre-des-Arts.  With  broad 
sweeps  of  the  broom  she  spreads  the  water  over  half 
the  street  and  back  into  the  gutter,  making  the  worn 
yellow  stones  shine.  She  is  coarsely  clad  and  wears 
black  sabots  ;  and  God  knows  how  she  can  swear 
when  the  gleaners  scatter  the  refuse  into  the  gutter ! 

The  long  wail  of  the  fish-and-mussel  woman,  "  J'ai 
des  beaux  maquereaux,  des  monies,  poissons  a  frire, 
a  frire  !"  as  she  pushes  her  cart,  means  seven  o'clock. 

The  day  now  really  begins.  Water-pails  are 
clanging  and  sabots  are  clicking  on  the  stones. 
The  wine  people  set  up  a  rumble  by  cleaning  their 
casks  with  chains  and  water.  The  anvils  of  the 
iron-workers  are  ringing,  and  there  comes  the  tink- 

tink-tink  of  the  little  hammers  in  the  embossed-picture 

29 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

factory.  The  lumbering  garbage-cart  arrives  to  bear 
away  the  ash-bins,  the  lead-horse  shaking  his  head 
to  rinor  the  bell  on  his  neck  in  announcement  of  the 
approach.  Street-venders  and  hawkers  of  various 
comestibles,  each  with  his  or  her  quaint  musical  cry, 
come  in  numbers.  "J'ai  des  beaux  choux-fleurs  !  O, 
comme  ils  sont  beaux  !"  The  fruit-  and  potato-women 
come  after,  and  then  the  chair-menders.  These  mar- 
ket-women are  early  risers.  They  are  at  the  great 
Halles  Centrales  at  four  o'clock  to  bargain  for  their 
wares  ;  and  besides  good  lungs  they  have  a  marvel- 
lous shrewdness,  born  of  long  dealings  with  French 
housewives. 

Always  near  eight  may  be  heard,  "  Du  mouron 
pour  les  petits  oiseaux  !"  and  all  the  birds  in  the  court, 
familiar  with  the  cry,  pipe  up  for  their  chickweed. 
'' Voila  le  bon  fromage  a  la  creme  pour  trois  sous  !" 
cries  a  keen-faced  little  woman,  her  three-wheeled 
cart  loaded  with  cream  cheeses  ;  and  she  gives  a 
soup-plate  full  of  them,  wath  cream  poured  gener 
ously  over,  and  as  she  pockets  the  money  says, 
"Voila  !  ce  que  c'est  bon  avec  des  confitures  !"  Cream 
cheeses  and  prayer !  On  Sunday  mornings  during 
the  spring  and  summer  the  goat's-milk  vender,  blow- 
ing a  reed-pipe,  invades  the  passage  with  his  living 
milk-cans, — a  flock  of  eight  hairy  goats  that  know 
the  route  as  well  as  he,  and  they  are  always  willing 
to  be  milked  when  a  customer  offers  a  bowl.  The 
tripe-man  with  his  wares  and  bell  is  the  last  of  the 
food-sellers  of  the  day.  The  window-glass  repairer, 
"  Vitrier  !"  passes  at  nine,  and  then  the  beggars  and 

30 


THE    LAUNDRY   GIRL 


OUR   STUDIO 

strolling  musicians  and  singers  put  in  an  appearance. 
In  the  afternoon  the  old-clo'  man  comes  hobbling 
under  his  load  of  cast-off  clothes,  crying,  "  Marchand 
d'habits !"  of  which  you  can  catch  only  " 'Chand 
d'habits  !"  and  the  barrel-buyer,  "  Marchand  de  ton- 
neaux  !"  The  most  musical  of  them  all  is  the  por- 
celain-mender, who  cries,  "  Voici  le  raccommodeur  de 
porcelaines,  faience,  cristal,  poseur  de  robinets  !"  and 
then  plays  a  fragment  of  a  hunting-song. 

The  beggars  and  musicians  also  have  regular 
routes  and  fixed  hours.  Cold  and  stormy  days  are 
welcomed  by  them,  for  then  pity  lends  activity  to 
sous.  A  piratical  old  beggar  has  his  stand  near  the 
entrance  to  the  court,  where  he  kneels  on  the  stones, 
his  faithful  mongrel  dog  beside  him.  He  occasion- 
ally poses  for  the  artists  when  times  are  dull,  but  he 
prefers  begging, — it  is  easier  and  more  remunerative. 
Three  times  a  week  we  are  treated  to  some  really 
good  singing  by  a  blind  old  man,  evidently  an  artist 
in  his  day.  When  the  familiar  sound  of  his  guitar  is 
heard  all  noises  in  the  passage  cease,  and  all  win- 
dows are  opened  to  hear.  He  sings  arias  from  the 
operas.  His  little  old  wife  gathers  up  the  sous  that 
ring  on  the  flags.  Sometimes  a  strolling  troupe  of 
two  actors  and  three  musicians  makes  its  appear- 
ance, and  invariably  plays  to  a  full  house.  There 
are  droves  of  sham  singers  who  do  not  sing  at 
all  but  give  mournful  howls  and  tell  their  woes  to 
deaf  windows.  One  of  them,  a  tattered  woman 
with  two  babies,  refused  to  pose  for  Bishop, 
althouorh  he  offered  her  five  francs  for  the  afternoon. 

3  33 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

Her  babies  never  grow  older  or  bigger  as  the  years 
pass. 

We  all  know  when  anybody  in  the  passage  is 
going  to  take  a  bath.  There  are  no  bath-tubs  in 
these  old  houses,  but  that  difficulty  is  surmounted 
by  a  bathing  establishment  on  the  Boulevard  St.- 
Michel.  It  sends  around  a  cart  bearing  a  tank  of 
hot  water  and  a  zinc  tub.  The  man  who  pulls  the 
cart  carries  the  tub  to  the  room,  and  fills  it  by  carry- 
ing up  the  water  in  buckets.  Then  he  remains 
below  until  the  bath  is  finished,  to  regain  his  tub  and 
collect  a  fi'anc. 

Since  we  have  been  here  the  court  entrance  has 
been  once  draped  in  mourning.  At  the  head  of  the 
casket  of  old  Madame  Courtoise,  who  lived  across  the 
way,  stood  a  stately  crucifix,  and  candles  burned, 
and  there  were  mourners  and  yellow  bead  wreaths. 
A  quiet  sadness  sat  upon  the  court,  and  the  people 
spoke  in  whispers  only. 

And  there  have  been  two  weddings, — one  at  the 
blanchisserie,  where  the  master's  daughter  was  mar- 
ried to  a  young  mechanic  from  the  iron  shop.  There 
were  glorious  times  at  the  laundry  that  night,  for  the 
whole  court  was  present.  It  was  four  in  the  morn- 
ing when  the  party  broke  up,  and  then  our  shirts 
were  two  days  late. 

Thus  ran  the  first  months  of  the  four  years  of  our 
student  life  in  Paris  ;  in  its  domestic  aspects  it  was 
typical  of  all  that  followed.  We  soon  became  mem- 
bers of  the  American  Art  Association,  and  gradually 
made   friends   in   charming  French  homes.      Then 

34 


OUR   STUDIO 

there  was  the  strange  Bohemian  Hfe  lying  outside 
as  well  as  within  the  students'  pale,  and  into  the 
spirit  of  it  all  we  found  our  way.  It  is  to  the  Bohe- 
mian, not  the  social,  life  of  Paris  that  these  papers 
are  devoted — a  life  both  picturesque  and  pathetic, 
filled  with  the  oddest  contrasts  and  incongruities, 
with  much  suffering  but  more  content,  and  spectacu- 
lar and  fascinating  in  all  its  phases.  No  one  can 
have  seen  and  known  Paris  without  a  study  of  this 
its  living,  struggling  artistic  side,  so  strange,  so  re- 
mote from  the  commonplace  world  surging  and 
roaring  unheeded  about  it. 

On  New  Year's  Day  we  had  an  overwhelming 
number  of  callers.  First  came  the  concierge,  who 
cleaned  our  door-knob  and  wished  us  a  prosperous 
and  bonne  annee.  She  got  ten  francs, — we  did  not 
know  what  was  coming.  The  chic  little  blanchisseuse 
called  next  with  our  linen.  That  meant  two  francs. 
Then  came  in  succession  two  telegraph  boys,  the 
facteur,  or  postman,  who  presented  us  with  a  cheap 
calendar,  and  another  postman,  who  delivers  only 
second-class  mail.  Thf-y  got  a  franc  each.  Then 
the  marchand  de  charbon's  boy  called  with  a  clean 
face  and  received  fifty  centimes,  and  everybody  else 
with  whom  we  had  had  dealings  ;  and  our  offerings 
had  a  steadily  diminishing  value. 

We  could  well  bear  all  this,  however,  in  view  of 
the  great  day,  but  a  week  old,  when  we  had  cele- 
brated Christmas.  Bishop  prepared  a  dinner  fit  for 
a  king,  giving  the  greater  part  of  his  time  for  a  week 
to  preparations  for  the  great  event.     Besides  a  great 

35 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

many  French  dishes,  we  had  turkey  and  goose,  cooked 
for  us  at  the  rotisserie  near  by,  and  soup,  oysters, 
American  pastries,  and  a  big,  blazing  plum-pudding. 
We  and  our  guests  (there  were  eight  in  all)  donned 
full  dress  for  the  occasion,  and  a  bonne,  hired  for  the 
evening,  brought  on  the  surprises  one  after  another. 
But  why  should  not  it  have  been  a  glorious  evening 
high  up  among  the  chimney-pots  of  old  Paris  ?  for 
did  we  not  drink  to  the  loved  ones  in  a  distant  land, 
and  were  not  our  guests  the  prettiest  among  the 
pretty  toilers  of  our  court  ? 


FROM    THE   HOTEL  WI^DOW 


THE   £COLE   DBS   BEAUX-ARTS 


IT  is  about  the  fifteenth  of  October,  after  the  long 
summer  vacation,  that    the    doors  of   the    great 
Ecole   des    Beaux-Arts   are  thrown  open.     The 
first  week,  called  "la  semaine  des  nouveaux,"  is  de- 


TYPICAL   STUDENTS   OF   THE   BEAUX-ARTS 


voted  to  the  initiation  and  hazing  of  the  new  stu- 
dents, who  come  mostly  from  foreign  countries  and 

37 


BOHExMIAN    PARIS 


the  French  provinces.     These  festivities  can  never 
be  forgotten — by  the  nouveaux. 

Bishop  had  condescendingly  decided  to    become 
un    eleve    de    Gerome — with    some   misgivings,   for 


BROTHER    MUSKETEERS    OF   THE    BRUSH    AND   A    NEW    MODEL 

Bishop  had  developed  ideas  of  a  large  and  free 
American  art,  while  Gerome  was  hard  and  academic. 
One  day  he  gathered  up  some  of  his  best  drawings 
and  studies  (which  he  regarded  as  masterpieces) 
and,  climbing  to  the  imperiale  of  a  Clichy  'bus,  rode 

38 


THE   ECOLE   DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

over  to  Montmartre,  where  Gerome  had  his  private 
studio.  He  was  politely  ushered  in  by  a  man- 
servant, and  conducted  to  the  door  of  the  master's 
studio  through  a  hall  and  gallery  filled  with  wonder- 
ful marble  groups.  Gerome  himself  opened  the 
door,  and  Bishop  found  himself  in  the  great  man's 
workshop.  For  a  moment  Bishop  stood  dazed  in 
the  middle  of  the  splendid  room,  with  its  great 
sculptures  and  paintings,  some  still  unfinished,  and 
a  famous  collection  of  barbaric  arms  and  costumes. 
A  beautiful  model  was  posing  upon  a  rug.  But 
most  impressive  of  all  was  the  white-haired  master, 
regarding  him  with  a  thoughtful  and  searching,  but 
kindly,  glance.  Bishop  presently  found  a  tongue 
with  which  to  stammer  out  his  mission, — he  would 
be  a  pupil  of  the  great  Gerome. 

The  old  man  smiled,  and,  bidding  his  model  retire, 
inspected  carefully  the  array  of  drawings  that  Bishop 
spread  at  his  feet, — Gerome  must  have  evidence  of 
some  ability  for  the  magic  of  his  brain  and  touch  to 
develop. 

"Sont  pas  mal,  mon  ami,"  he  said,  after  he  had 
studied  all  the  drawings  ;  "  non,  pas  mal,"  Bishop's 
heart  bounded, — his  work  was  not  bad!  "Vous 
etes  Americain  ?"  continued  the  master.  "  Cast  un 
pays  que  j'aimerais  bien  visiter  si  le  temps  ne  me 
manquait  pas." 

Thus  he  chatted  on,  putting  Bishop  more  and 
more  at  his  ease.  He  talked  of  America  and  the 
promising  future  that  she  has  for  art ;  then  he  went 
into  his  little  office,  and,  asking  Bishop's  name,  filled 

39 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

out  the  blank  that  made  him  a  happy  pupil  of 
Gerome.  He  handed  it  to  Bishop  with  this  parting 
advice,  spoken  with  great  earnestness  : 

"  II  faut  travailler,  mon  ami — travailler !  Pour 
arriver,  travailler  toujours,  serieusement,  bien  en- 
tendu !" 

Bishop  was  so  proud  and  happy  that  he  ran  all 
the  way  up  the  six  flights  of  stairs  to  our  floor,  burst 
into  the  studio,  and  executed  a  war-dance  that  would 
have  shamed  an  Apache,  stepping  into  his  paint-box 
and  nearly  destroying  his  sacred  Unknown.  That 
night  we  had  a  glorious  supper,  with  des  escargots 
to  start  with. 

Early  on  the  fifteenth  of  October,  with  his  head 
erect  and  hope  filling  his  soul.  Bishop  started  for 
the  Beaux-Arts,  which  was  in  the  Rue  Bonaparte, 
quite  near.  That  night  he  returned  wise  and  sad- 
dened. 

He  had  bought  a  new  easel  and  two  rush-bottomed 
tabourets,  which  every  new  student  must  provide, 
and.  loaded  with  these,  he  made  for  the  Ecole. 
Gathered  at  the  big  gates  was  a  great  crowd  of 
models  of  all  sorts,  men,  women,  and  children,  fat, 
lean,  and  of  all  possible  sizes.  In  the  court-yard, 
behind  the  gates,  was  a  mob  of  long-haired  students, 
who  had  a  year  or  more  ago  passed  the  initiatory 
ordeal  and  become  ancients.  Their  business  now 
was  to  yell  chaff  at  the  arriving  nouveaux.  The  con- 
cierge conducted  Bishop  up-stairs  to  the  Adminis- 
tration, where  he  joined  a  long  line  of  other  nouveaux 
waiting  for  the  opening  of  the  office  at  ten  o'clock. 

40 


THE   ECOLE   DES    BEAUX  ARTS 

Then  he  produced  his  papers  and  was  enrolled  as  a 
student  of  the  Ecole. 

It  is  only  in  this  government  school  of  the  four  arts 
that  the  typical  Bohemian  students  of  Paris  may  be 
found,  including  the  genuine  type  of  French  student, 
with  his  long  hair,  his  whiskers,  his  Latin  Quarter 
"  plug"  hat,  his  cape,  blouse,  wide  corduroy  trousers, 
sash,  expansive  necktie,  and  immense  cane.  The 
Ecole  preserves  this  type  more  effectually  than  the 
other  schools,  such  as  Julian's  and  Colarossi's,  where 
most  of  the  students  are  foreigners  in  conventional 
dress. 

Among  the  others  who  entered  Gerome's  atelier 
at  the  same  time  that  Bishop  did  was  a  Turk  named 
Haidor  (fresh  from  the  Ottoman  capital),  a  Hun- 
garian, a  Siamese,  an  American  from  the  plains  of 
Nebraska,  and  five  Frenchmen  from  the  provinces. 
They  all  tried  to  speak  French  and  be  agreeable  as 
they  entered  the  atelier  together.  At  the  door  stood 
a  gardien,  whose  principal  business  is  to  mark  ab- 
sentees and  suppress  riots.  Then  they  passed  to 
the  gentle  mercies  of  the  reception  committee  and 
the  massier  within. 

The  massier  is  a  student  who  manages  the  studio, 
models,  and  masse  money.  This  one,  a  large  fellow 
with  golden  whiskers  (size  and  strength  are  valu- 
able elements  of  the  massier's  efficiency),  demanded 
twenty-five  francs  from  each  of  the  new-comers, — this 
being  the  masse  money,  to  pay  for  fixtures,  turpen- 
tine, soap,  and  clean  towels,  et  pour  payer  a  boire. 
The  Turk  refused  to  pay,  protesting  that  he  had  but 

41 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

thirty  francs  to  last  him  the  month  ;  but  menacing 
stools  and  sticks  opened  his  purse  ;  his  punishment 
was  to  come  later.  After  the  money  had  been  col- 
lected from  all  the  nouveaux  the  entire  atelier  of  over 
sixty  students,  dressed  in  working  blouses  and  old 
coats,  formed  in  line,  and  with  deafening  shouts  of 
"A  boire  !  a  boire  !"  placed  the  nouveaux  in  front  to 
carry  the  class  banner,  and  thus  marched  out  into 
the  Rue  Bonaparte  to  the  Cafe  des  Deux  Magots, 
singing  songs  fit  only  for  the  studio.  Their  singing, 
shouting,  and  ridiculous  capers  drew  a  great  crowd. 
At  the  cafe  they  created  consternation  with  their 
shouting  and  howling  until  the  arrival  of  great 
bowls  of  "grog  Americain,"  cigarettes,  and  gateaux. 
Rousing  cheers  were  given  to  a  marriage-party  across 
the  Place  St.-Germain.  The  Turk  was  forced  to  do 
a  Turkish  dance  on  a  table  and  sing  Turkish  songs, 
and  to  submit  to  merciless  ridicule.  The  timid  little 
Siamese  also  had  to  do  a  turn,  as  did  Bishop  and 

W ,  the  American  from  Nebraska,  who  had  been 

a  cowboy  at  home.  After  yelling  themselves  hoarse 
and  nearly  wrecking  the  cafe,  the  students  marched 
back  in  a  disorderly  mob  to  the  Ecole.  Then  the 
real  trouble  began. 

The  gardien  having  conveniently  disappeared,  the 
students  closed  and  barricaded  the  door.  "A  poil ! 
a  poil !"  they  yelled,  dancing  frantically  about  the 
frightened  nouveaux  ;  "a  poil  les  sales  nouveaux  !  a 
poil !"  They  seized  the  Turk  and  stripped  him,  de- 
spite his  desperate  resistance ;  then  they  tied  his 
hands  behind  him  and  with  paint  and  brushes  dec- 

42 


THE   ECOLE   DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

orated  his  body  in  the  most  fantastic  designs  that 
they  could  conceive.  His  oaths  were  frightful.  He 
cursed  them  in  the  name  of  Allah,  and  swore  to  have 
the  blood  of  all  Frenchmen  for  desecrating  the  sacred 
person  of  a  Moslem.  He  called  them  dogs  of  infidels 
and  Christians.  But  all  this  was  in  Turkish,  and  the 
students  enjoyed  it  immensely.  "  En  broche  !"  they 
yelled,  after  they  had  made  him  a  spectacle  with  the 
brushes  ;  "  en  broche  !  II  faut  le  mettre  en  broche  !'' 
This  was  quickly  done.  They  forced  the  Turk  to 
his  haunches,  bound  his  wrists  in  front  of  his  up- 
raised knees,  thrust  a  long  pole  between  his  elbows 
and  knees,  and  thus  bore  him  round  the  atelier  at 
the  head  of  a  singing  procession.  Four  times  they 
went  round  ;  then  they  placed  the  helpless  M.  Haidor 
on  the  model-stand  for  future  reference.  The  bad 
French  that  the  victim  occasionally  mixed  with  his 
tirade  indicated  the  fearful  damnation  that  he  was 
doubtless  dealinof  out  in  Turkish. 

A  circle  was  then  formed  about  him,  and  a  solemn 
silence  fell  upon  the  crowd.  A  Frenchman  named 
Joncierge,  head  of  the  reception  committee,  stepped 
forth,  and  in  slow  and  impressive  speech  announced 
that  it  was  one  of  the  requirements  of  the  Atelier 
Gerome  to  brand  all  nouveaux  over  the  heart  with 
the  name  of  the  atelier,  and  that  the  branding  of  the 
Turk  would  now  proceed.  Upon  hearing  this,  M. 
Haidor  emitted  a  fearful  howl.  But  he  was  turned 
to  face  the  red-hot  studio  stove  and  watch  the  brand- 
ing-iron slowly  redden  in  the  coals.  During  this 
interval  the  students   sang  the   national  song,   and 

43 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

followed  it  with  a  funeral  march.  Behind  the  Turk's 
back  a  second  poker  was  being  painted  to  resemble 
a  red-hot  one. 

The  hot  poker  was  taken  from  the  fire,  and  its 
usefulness  tested  by  burning  a  string  with  it.  Haidor 
grew  deathly  pale.  An  intense  silence  sat  upon  the 
atelier  as  the  iron  was  brought  near  the  helpless 
young  man.  In  a  moment,  with  wonderful  clever- 
ness, the  painted  poker  was  substituted  for  the  hot 
one  and  placed  quickly  against  his  breast.  When 
the  cold  iron  touched  him  he  roared  like  a  maddened 
bull,  and  rolled  quivering  and  moaning  upon  the 
floor.     The  students  were  frantic  with  delight. 

It  was  some  time  before  Haidor  could  realize  that 
he  was  not  burned  to  a  crisp.  He  was  then  taken 
across  the  atelier  and  hoisted  to  a  narrow  shelf  fifteen 
feet  from  the  floor,  where  he  was  left  to  compose 
himself  and  enjoy  the  tortures  of  the  other  nouveaux. 
He  dared  not  move,  however,  lest  he  fall ;  and  be- 
cause he  refused  to  take  anything  in  good-nature, 
but  glared  hatred  and  vengeance  down  at  them,  they 
pelted  him  at  intervals  with  water-soaked  sponges. 

The  Hungarian  and  one  of  the  French  nouveaux 
were  next  seized  and  stripped.  Then  they  were 
ordered  to  fight  a  duel,  in  this  fashion  :  they  were 
made  to  mount  two  stools  about  four  feet  apart. 
The  Hungarian  was  handed  a  long  paint-brush  drip- 
ping with  Prussian  blue,  and  the  Frenchman  a  simi- 
lar brush  soaked  with  crimson  lake.  Then  the  bat- 
tle began.  Each  hesitated  to  splash  the  other  at 
first,  but  as  they  warmed  to  their  work  under  the 

44 


THE   ECOLE   DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

shouting  of  the  committee  they  went  in  with  a  will. 
When  the  Frenchman  had  received  a  broad  splash 
on  the  mouth  in  return  for  a  chest  decoration  of  his 


A    PAINT-BRUSH    DUEL    AT    THE    BEAUX-ARTS 

adversary,  his  blood  rose,  and  then  the  serious  work 
began.  Both  quickly  lost  their  temper.  When  they 
were  unwillingly  made  to  desist  the  product  of  their 
labors  was    startling,    though   not   beautiful.     Then 

45 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

they  were  rubbed  down  vigorously  with  turpentine 
and  soiled  towels,  and  were  given  a  franc  each  for 
a  bath,  because  they  had  behaved  so  handsomely. 

Bishop  came  next.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
stand  the  initiation  philosophically,  whatever  it  might 
be,  but  when  he  was  ordered  to  strip  he  became  ap- 
prehensive and  then  angry.  Nothing  so  delights 
the  students  as  for  a  nouveau  to  lose  his  temper. 
Bishop  squared  off  to  face  the  whole  atelier,  and 
looked  ugly.  The  students  silently  deployed  on 
three  sides,  and  with  a  yell  rushed  in,  but  not  before 
three  of  them  had  gone  down  under  his  fists  did  they 
pin  him  to  the  floor  and  strip  him.  While  Bishop 
was  thus  being  prepared,  the  Nebraskan  was  being 
dealt  with.  He  had  the  wisdom  not  to  lose  his 
temper,  and  that  made  his  resistance  all  the  more 
formidable.  Laughing  all  the  time,  he  nevertheless 
dodged,  tripped,  wrestled,  threw  stools,  and  did  so 
many  other  astonishing  and  baflling  things  that  the 
students,  though  able  to  have  conquered  him  in  the 
end,  were  glad  to  make  terms  with  him.  In  this  ar- 
rangement he  compelled  them  to  include  Bishop. 
As  a  result,  those  two  mounted  the  model  throne 
naked,  and  sang  together  and  danced  a  jig,  all  so 
cleverly  that  the  Frenchmen  were  frantic  with  delight, 
and  welcomed  them  as  des  bons  amis.  The  amazing 
readiness  and  capability  of  the  American  fist  bring 
endless  delight  and  perennial  surprise  to  the  French. 

The  rest  of  the  nouveaux  were  variously  treated. 
Some,  after  being  stripped,  were  grotesquely  deco- 
rated with  designs  and  pictures  not  suitable  for  gen- 


THE   ECOLE   DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

eral  inspection.  Others  were  made  to  sing,  to  re- 
cite, or  to  act  scenes  from  familiar  plays,  or,  in  default 
of  that,  to  improvise  scenes,  some  of  which  were  ex- 
ceedingly funny.  Others,  attached  to  a  rope  de- 
pending from  the  ceiling,  were  swung  at  a  perilous 
rate  across  the  atelier,  dodging  easels  in  their  flight. 

At  half-past  twelve  the  sport  was  over.  The 
barricade  was  removed,  the  Turk's  clothes  hidden, 
the  Turk  left  howling  on  his  shelf,  and  the  atelier 
abandoned.  The  next  morning  there  was  trouble. 
The  director  was  furious,  and  threatened  to  close 
the  atelier  for  a  month,  because  the  Turk  had  not 
been  discovered  until  five  o'clock,  when  his  hoarse 
howls  attracted  the  attention  of  the  gardien  of  the 
fires.  His  trousers  and  one  shoe  could  not  be 
found.  It  was  three  months  before  Haidor  appeared 
at  the  atelier  again,  and  then  everything  had  been 
forgotten. 

Bishop  was  made  miserable  during  the  ensuing 
week.  He  would  find  himself  roasting  over  paper 
fires  kindled  under  his  stool.  Paint  was  smeared 
upon  his  easel  to  stain  his  hands.  His  painting  was 
altered  and  entirely  re-designed  in  his  absence. 
Strong-smelling  cheeses  were  placed  in  the  lining  of 
his  "plug"  hat.  His  stool-legs  were  so  loosened 
that  when  he  sat  down  he  struck  the  floor  with  a 
crash.  His  painting-blouse  was  richly  decorated  in- 
side and  out  with  shocking  coats  of  arms  that  would 
not  wash  out.  One  day  he  discovered  that  he  had 
been  painting  for  a  whole  hour  with  currant  jelly 
from  a  tube  that  he  thought  contained  laque. 

4  49 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

Then,  being  a  nouveau,  he  could  never  get  a  good 
position  in  which  to  draw  from  the  model.  Every 
Monday  morning  a  new  model  is  posed  for  the  week, 
and  the  students  select  places  according  to  the  length 
of  time  they  have  been  attending.  The  nouveaux 
have  to  take  what  is  left.  And  they  must  be  ser- 
vants to  the  ancients, — run  out  for  tobacco,  get 
soap  and  clean  towels,  clean  paint-brushes,  and  keep 
the  studio  in  order.  With  the  sculptors  and  archi- 
tects it  is  worse.  The  sculptors  must  sweep  the 
dirty,  clay-grimed  floor  regularly,  fetch  clean  water, 
mix  the  clay  and  keep  it  fresh  and  moist,  and  on 
Saturdays,  when  the  week's  work  is  finished,  must 
break  up  the  forty  or  more  clay  figures,  and  restore 
them  to  clay  for  next  week's  operations.  The  archi- 
tects must  build  heavy  wooden  frames,  mount  the 
projects  and  drawings,  and  cart  them  about  Paris  to 
the  different  exhibition  rooms. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  the  nouveau  drops  his  hated 
title  and  becomes  a  proud  ancient,  to  bully  to  his 
heart's  content,  as  those  before  him. 

Mondays  and  Wednesdays  are  criticism  days,  for 
then  M.  Gerome  comes  down  and  goes  over  the 
work  of  his  pupils.  He  is  very  early  and  punctual, 
never  arriving  later  than  half-past  eight,  usually  be- 
fore half  the  students  are  awake.  The  moment  he 
enters  all  noises  cease,  and  all  seem  desperately 
hard  at  work,  although  a  moment  before  the  place 
may  have  been  in  an  uproar.  Gerome  plumps  down 
upon  the  man  nearest  to  him,  and  then  visits  each  of 
his  eleves,  storming  and  scolding  mercilessly  when 

50 


GfeR&ME    CRITICISING   BISHOP'S   WORK 


THE    ECOLE   DES    BEAUX-ARTS 

his  pupils  have  failed  to  follow  his  instructions.  As 
soon  as  a  student's  criticism  is  finished  he  rises  and 
follows  the  master  to  hear  the  other  criticisms,  so 
that  toward  the  close  the  procession  is  large. 

Bishop's  first  criticism  took  him  all  aback.  "  Com- 
ment !"  gasped  the  master,  gazing  at  the  canvas  in 
horror.  "Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  fait?"  he  sternly 
demanded,  glaring  at  the  luckless  student,  who,  in 
order  to  cultivate  a  striking  individuality,  was  paint- 
ing the  model  in  broad,  thick  dashes  of  color.  Ge- 
rome  glanced  at  Bishop's  palette,  and  saw  a  com- 
plete absence  of  black  upon  it.  "  Comment,  vous 
n'avez  pas  de  noir?"  he  roared.  "  C'est  tres  im- 
portant, la  partie  materielle !  Vous  ne  m'ecoutez 
pas.  mon  ami, — je  parle  dans  le  desert !  Vous 
n'avez  pas  d'aspect  general,  mon  ami,"  and  much 
more,  while  Bishop  sat  cold  to  the  marrow.  The 
students,  crowded  about,  enjoyed  his  discomfiture 
immensely,  and,  behind  Gerome's  back,  laughed  in 
their  sleeves  and  made  faces  at  Bishop.  But  many 
others  suffered,  and  Bishop  had  his  inning  with 
them. 

All  during  Gerome's  tour  of  inspection  the  model 
must  maintain  his  pose,  however  difficult  and  ex- 
hausting. Often  he  is  kept  on  a  fearful  strain  for 
two  hours.  After  the  criticism  the  boys  show  Gerome 
sketches  and  studies  that  they  have  made  outside 
the  Ecole,  and  it  is  in  discussing  them  that  his  ge- 
niality and  kindliness  appear.  Gerome  imperiously 
demands  two  things, — that  his  pupils,  before  starting 
to  paint,  lay  on  a  red  or  yellow  tone,  and  that  they 

S3 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

keep  their  brushes  scrupulously  clean.  Woe  to  him 
who  disobeys ! 

After  he  leaves  with  a  cheery  "  Bon  jour,  mes- 
sieurs !"  pandemonium  breaks  loose,  if  the  day  be 
Saturday.  Easels,  stools,  and  studies  are  mowed 
down  as  by  a  whirlwind,  yells  shake  the  building,  the 
model  is  released,  a  tattoo  is  beaten  on  the  sheet- 
iron  stove-guard,  everything  else  capable  of  making 
a  noise  is  brought  into  service,  and  either  the  model 
is  made  to  do  the  danse  du  ventre  or  a  nouveau  is 
hazed. 

The  models — what  stories  are  there  !  Every  Mon- 
day morning  from  ten  to  twenty  present  themselves, 
male  and  female,  for  inspection  in  puris  naturalibus 
before  the  critical  gaze  of  the  students  of  the  differ- 
ent ateliers.  One  after  another  they  mount  the 
throne  and  assume  such  academic  poses  of  their  own 
choosing  as  they  imagine  will  display  their  points  to 
the  best  advantage.  The  students  then  vote  upon 
them,  for  and  against,  by  raising  the  hand.  The 
massier,  standing  beside  the  model,  announces  the 
result,  and,  if  the  vote  is  favorable,  enrols  the  model 
for  a  certain  week  to  come. 

There  is  intense  rivalry  among  the  models. 
Strange  to  say,  most  of  the  male  models  in  the 
schools  of  Paris  are  from  Italy,  the  southern  part 
especially.  As  a  rule,  they  have  very  good  figures. 
They  begin  posing  at  the  age  of  five  or  six,  and  fol- 
low the  business  until  old  a^e  retires  them.  Crowds 
of  them  are  at  the  gates  of  the  Beaux-Arts  early  on 
Monday  mornings.     In  the  voting,  a  child  may  be 

54 


THE   ECOLE   DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

preferred  to  his  seniors,  and  yet  the  rate  of  payment 
is  the  same, — thirty  francs  a  week. 

Many  of  the  older  models  are  quite  proud  of  their 
profession,  spending  idle  hours  in  studying  the  atti- 


ITALIAN   MODFLS   IN    FRONT   OF   COLAROSSl'S 


tudes  of  figures  in  great  paintings  and  in  sculptures 
in  the  Louvre  or  the  Luxembourg,  and  adopting 
these  poses  when  exhibiting  themselves  to  artists  ; 
but  the  trick  is  worthless. 

Few  of  the  women  models  remain  long  in  the  pro- 
fession. Posing  is  hard  and  fatiguing  work,  and  the 
students  are  merciless  in  their  criticisms  of  any  de- 
fects of  figure  that  the  models  may  have, — the  French 
are  born  critics.  During  the  many  years  that  I  have 
studied  and  worked  in  Paris  I  have  seen  scores  of 

55 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


disappear 
whither  ? 
contented 


models  begin  their  profession  with  a  serious  defer- 
mination  to  make  it  their  life-work.  They  would 
appear  regularly  at  the  different  ateliers  for  about 

two  years,  and  would 
be  (gratified  to  ob- 
serve  endless  repro- 
ductions of  their 
graces  in  the  prize 
rows  on  the  studio 
walls.  Then  their 
appearance  would  be 
less  and  less  regular, 
and  they  would  finally 
al  together — 
Some  become 
companions 
of  students  and  artists,  but 
the  cafes  along  the  Boul' 
Mich',  the  cabarets  of  Mont- 
martre,  and  the  dance-halls  of  the 
Moulin  Rouge  and  the  Bal  Bullier 
have  their  own  story  to  tell.  Some 
are  happily  married ;  for  instance, 
one,  noted  for  her  beauty  of  face 
and  figure,  is  the  wife  of  a  New 
York  millionaire.  But  she  was  clever  as  well  as 
beautiful,  and  few  models  are  that.  Most  of  them 
are  ordinaire,  living  the  easy  life  of  Bohemian  Paris, 
and  having  little  knowledge  of  le  monde  propre. 
But,  oh,  how  they  all  love  dress  !  and  therein  lies 
most  of  the  story.     When  Marcelle  or  Helene  ap- 

56 


RKST  TIME  FOR  THE 
MODEL 


THE   ECOLE   DES    REAUX-ARTS 

pears,  all  of  a  sudden,  radiant  in  silks  and  creamy 
lace  petticoats,  and  sweeps  proudly  into  the  crowded 
studios,  flushed  and  happy,  and  hears  the  dear  com- 
pliments that  the  students  heap  upon  her,  we  know 
that  thirty  francs  a  week  could  not  have  changed  the 
gray  grub  into  a  gorgeous  butterfly. 

"  C'est  mon  amant  qui  m'a  fait  cadeau,"  Marcelle 
w^ll  explain,  deeming  some  explanation  necessary. 
There  is  none  to  dispute  you,  Marcelle.  This  vast 
whirlpool  has  seized  many  another  like  you,  and  will 
seize  many  another  more.  And  to  poor  Marcelle  it 
seems  so  small  a  price  to  pay  to  become  one  of  the 
grand  ladies  of  Paris,  wath  their  dazzling  jewels  and 
rich  clothes ! 

An  odd  whim  may  overtake  one  here  and  there. 
One  young  demoiselle,  beautiful  as  a  girl  and  suc- 
cessful as  a  model  a  year  ago,  may  now  be  seen 
nightly  at  the  Cabaret  du  Soleil  d'Or,  frowsy  and 
languishing,  in  keeping  with  the  spirit  of  her  con- 
freres there,  singing  her  famous  "  Le  Petit  Caporal" 
to  thunderous  applause,  and  happy  with  the  love, 
squalor,  dirt,  and  hunger  that  she  finds  with  the  luck- 
less poet  whose  fortunes  she  shares.  It  was  not  a 
matter  of  clothes  with  her. 

It  is  a  short  and  easy  step  from  the  studio  to  the 
cafe.  At  the  studio  it  is  all  little  money,  hard  posing, 
dulness,  and  poor  clothes  ;  at  the  cafes  are  the  bril- 
liant lights,  showy  clothes,  tinkling  money,  clinking 
glasses,  popping  corks,  unrestrained  abandon,  and 
midnight  suppers.  And  the  studios  and  the  cafes 
are  but  adjoining  apartments,  one  may  say,  in  the 

57 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

great  house  of  Bohemia.  The  studio  is  the  introduc- 
tion to  the  cafe  :  the  cafe  is  the  burst  of  sunshine 
after  the  dreariness  of  the  studio  ;  and  Marcelle 
determines  that  for  once  she  will  bask  in  the  warmth 
and  glow.  .  .  .  Ah,  what  a  jolly  night  it  was,  and  a 
louis  d'or  in  her  purse  besides  !  Marcelle's  face  was 
pretty — and  new.  She  is  late  at  the  studio  next 
morning,  and  is  sleepy  and  cross.  The  students 
grumble.  The  room  is  stifling,  and  its  gray  walls 
seem  ready  to  crush  her.  It  is  so  tiresome,  so 
stupid — and  only  thirty  francs  a  week  !  Bah  !  .  .  . 
Marcelle  appears  no  more. 

All  the  great  painters  have  their  exclusive  model 
or  models,  paying  them  a  permanent  salary.  These 
favored  ones  move  in  a  special  circle,  into  which  the 
ordinaire  may  not  enter,  unless  she  becomes  the 
favorite  of  some  grand  homme.  They  are  never 
seen  at  the  academies,  and  rarely  or  never  pose  in 
the  schools,  unless  it  was  there  they  began  their 
career. 

Perhaps  the  most  famous  of  the  models  of  Paris 
was  Sarah  Brown,  whose  wild  and  exciting  life  has 
been  the  talk  of  the  world.  Her  beautiful  figure 
and  glorious  golden  hair  opened  to  her  the  whole 
field  of  modeldom.  Offers  for  her  services  as  model 
were  more  numerous  than  she  could  accept,  and  the 
prices  that  she  received  were  very  high.  She  was 
the  mistress  of  one  great  painter  after  another,  and 
she  lived  and  reigned  like  a  queen.  Impulsive, 
headstrong,  passionate,  she  would  do  the  most  reck- 
less things.     She  would  desert  an  artist  in  the  middle 

58 


THE    ECOLE   DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

of  his  masterpiece  and  come  down  to  the  studio  to 
pose  for  the  students  at  thirty  francs  a  week.  Gor- 
geously apparelled,  she  would  glide  into  a  studio, 
overturn  all  the  easels  that  she  could  reach,  and  then 
sliriek  with  laughter  over  the  havoc  and  consterna- 
tion that  she  had  created.  The  students  would  greet 
her  with  shouts  and  lorm  a  circle  about  her,  while 
she  would  banteringly  call  them  her  friends.  Then 
she  would  jump  upon  the  throne,  dispossess  the 
model  there,  and  give  a  dance  or  make  a  speech, 
knocking  off  every  hat  that  her  parasol  could  reach. 
But  no  one  could  resist  Sarah. 

She  came  up  to  the  Atelier  Gerome  one  morning 
and  demanded  une  semaine  de  femme.  The  massier 
booked  her  for  the  following  week.  She  arrived 
promptly  on  time  and  was  posed.  Wednesday  a 
whim  seized  her  to  wear  her  plumed  hat  and  silk 
stockings.  "  C'est  beaucoup  plus  chic,"  she  naively 
explained.  When  Gerome  entered  the  studio  and 
saw  her  posing  thus  she  smiled  saucily  at  him,  but 
he  turned  in  a  rage  and  left  the  studio  without  a 
word.  Thursday  she  tired  of  the  pose  and  took  one 
to  please  herself,  donning  a  skirt.  Of  course  pro- 
tests were  useless,  so  the  students  had  to  recom- 
mence their  work.  The  remainder  of  the  week  she 
sat  upon  the  throne  in  full  costume,  refusing  to  pose. 
She  amused  herself  with  smoking  cigarettes  and 
keeping  the  nouveaux  running  errands  for  her. 

It  was  she  who  was  the  cause  of  the  students' 
riot  in  1893, — ^  ^^^^  ^^^^  came  near  ending  in  a  revo- 
lution.    It  was  all  because  she  appeared  at    le  Bal 

59 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

des  Quat'z'  Arts  in  a  costume  altogether  too  simple 
and  natural  to  suit  the  prefect  of  police,  who  pun- 
ished her.  She  was  always  at  the  Salon  on  receiving- 
day,  and  shocked  the  occupants  of  the  liveried  car- 
riages on  the  Champs-Elysees  with  her  dancing.  In 
fact,  she  was  always  at  the  head  of  everything  ex- 
traordinary and  sensational  among  the  Bohemians 
of  Paris.  But  she  aged  rapidly  under  her  wild  life. 
Her  figure  lost  its  grace,  her  lovers  deserted  her, 
and  after  her  dethronement  as  Queen  of  Bohemia, 
broken-hearted  and  poor,  she  put  an  end  to  her 
wretched  life, — and  Paris  laughed. 

The  breaking  in  of  a  new  girl  model  is  a  joy 
that  the  students  never  permit  themselves  to  miss. 
Among  the  many  demoiselles  who  come  every  Mon- 
day morning  are  usually  one  or  two  that  are  new. 
The  new  one  is  accompanied  by  two  or  more  of  her 
girl  friends,  who  give  her  encouragement  at  the  ter- 
rible moment  when  she  disrobes.  As  there  are  no 
dressing-rooms,  there  can  be  no  privacy.  The  stu- 
dents gather  about  and  watch  the  proceedings  with 
great  interest,  and  make  whatever  remarks  their 
deviltry  can  suggest.  This  is  the  supreme  test ;  all 
the  efforts  of  the  attendant  girls  are  required  to 
hold  the  new  one  to  her  purpose.  When  finally, 
after  an  inconceivable  struggle  with  her  shame,  the 
girl  plunges  ahead  in  reckless  haste  to  finish  the  job, 
the  students  applaud  her  roundly. 

But  more  torture  awaits  her.  Frightened,  trem- 
bling, blushing  furiously,  she  ascends  the  throne,  and 

innocently  assumes  the  most  awkward  and  ridiculous 

60 


A    NEW    MODEL    AT    GfeRQMK'S    ATELIER 


THE   ECOLE  DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

poses,  forgetting  in  that  terrible  moment  the  poses 
that  she  had  learned  so  well  under  the  tutelage  of 

o 

her  friends.  It  is  then  that  the  fiendishness  of  the 
students  rises  to  its  greatest  height.  Dazed  and 
numb,  she  hardly  comprehends  the  ordeal  through 
which  she  is  now  put.  The  students  have  adopted  a 
grave  and  serious  bearing,  and  solemnly  ask  her  to 
assume  the  most  outlandish  and  ungraceful  poses. 
Then  come  long  and  mock-earnest  arguments  about 
her  figure,  these  arguments  having  been  carefully 
learned  and  rehearsed  beforehand.  One  claims  that 
her  waist  is  too  long  and  her  legs  too  heavy  ;  another 
hotly  takes  the  opposite  view.  Then  they  put  her 
through  the  most  absurd  evolutions  to  prove  their 
points.  At  last  she  is  made  to  don  her  hat  and 
stockings  ;  and  the  students  form  a  ring  about  her 
and  dance  and  shout  until  she  is  ready  to  faint. 

Of  course  the  studio  has  a  ringleader  in  all  this 
deviltry, — all  studios  have.  Joncierge  is  head  of  all 
the  mischief  in  our  atelier.  There  is  no  end  to  his 
ingenuity  in  devising  new  means  of  torture  and  fun. 
His  personations  are  marvellous.  When  he  imitates 
Bernhardt,  Rejane,  or  Calve,  no  work  can  be  done  in 
the  studio.  Gerome  himself  is  one  of  his  favorite 
victims.  But  Joncierge  cannot  remain  long  in  one 
school ;  the  authorities  pass  him  on  as  soon  as  they 
find  that  he  is  really  hindering  the  work  of  the  stu- 
dents. One  day,  at  Julian's,  he  took  the  class  skel- 
eton, and  with  a  cord  let  the  rattling,  quivering 
thing  down  into  the  Rue  du  Dragon,  and  frightened 
the  passers  out  of  their  wits.     As  his  father  is  chef 

63 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


d'orchestre  at  the  Grand  Opera,  Joncierge  junior 
learns  all  the  operas  and  convulses  us  with  imitations 
of  the  singers. 

Another  character  in  the  studio  is  le  jeune  Siffert. 
only  twenty-three,  and  one  of  the  cleverest  of  the 
coming  French  painters.     Recently  he   nearly  won 
the  Prix  de  Rome.  ,  His  specialty  is  the 
imitation  of  the  cries  of  domestic  fowls 
and    animals,    and  of   street   venders. 
Gerome  calls  him  "  mon  his,"  and  con- 
stantly  implores   him    to 
be  serious.      I  don't  see 
why. 

Then    there    is    Fiola. 
a  young  giant  from  Brit- 
tany,   with    a    wonderful 
■facility  at  drawing.       He 
will  suddenly  break  into 
a  roar,  and  for  an  hour  sing  one 
verse  of  a  Brittany  chant,  driving 
the  other  students  mad. 

Fournier  is  a  little  curly-headed 
fellow    from    the    south,   near  Va- 
i^'^  I^P^'y    lence,  and  wears  corduroy  trousers 
"*      "^    tucked  into  top-boots.     His  great- 
est   delip"ht     is    in     plapfuingf    the 

SUSANNE,  THE   FAMOUS  °  .  ^  - 

PARISIAN  MODEL        nouveaux.      His   favorite  joke,  if 

the    day    is    dark,    is    to    send    a 

nouveau    to  the    different   ateliers  of  the  Ecole   in 

search    of    "le    grand    reflecteur."       The    nouveau, 

thinking  that  it  is  a  device  for  increasing  the  light, 

64 


THE   ECOLE   DES   BEAUX-ARTS 

starts  out  bravely,  and  presently  returns  with  a  large, 
heavy  box,  which,  upon  its  being  opened,  is  found 
to  be  filled  with  bricks.     Then  Fournier  is  happy. 

Taton  is  the  butt  of  the  atelier.  He  is  an  ingenu, 
and  falls  into  any  trap  set  for  him.  Whenever  any- 
thing is  missing,  all  pounce  upon  Taton,  and  he  is 
very  unhappy. 

Haidor,  the  Turk,  suspicious  and  sullen,  also  is  a 
butt.  Caricatures  of  him  abundantly  adorn  the 
walls,  together  with  the  Turkish  crescent,  and  Turk- 
ish ladies  executing  the  danse  du  ventre. 

Caricatures  of  all  kinds  cover  the  walls  of  the 
atelier,  and  some  are  magnificent,  being  spared  the 
vandalism  that  spares  nothing  else.  One,  especially 
good,  represents  Kenyon  Cox,  who  studied  here. 

W ,  the  student  from  Nebraska,  created  a  sen- 
sation by  appearing  one  day  in  the  full  regalia  of  a 
cowboy,  including  two  immense  revolvers,  a  knife, 
and  a  lariat  depending  from  his  belt.  With  the 
lariat  he  astonished  and  dismayed  the  dodging 
Frenchmen  by  lassoing  them  at  will,  though  they 
exercised  their  greatest  running  and  dodging  agility 
to  escape.  They  wanted  to  know  if  all  Americans 
went  about  thus  heeled  in  America. 

There  is  something  uncanny  about  the  little  Siam- 
ese. He  is  exceedingly  quiet  and  works  unceasingly. 
One  day,  when  the  common  spirit  of  mischief  was 
unusually  strong  among  the  boys,  the  bolder  ones 
beofan  to  hint  at  fun  in  the  direction  of  the  Siamese. 
He  quietly  shifted  a  pair  of  brass  knuckles  from 
some  pocket  to  a  more  convenient  one,  and  although 
5  65 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

it  was  done  so  unostentatiously,  the  act  was  ob- 
served. He  was  not  disturbed,  and  has  been  left 
strictly  alone  ever  since. 

One  day  the  Italian  students  took  the  whole 
atelier  down  to  a  little  restaurant  on  the  Quai  des 
Grands-Augustins  and  cooked  them  an  excellent 
Italian  dinner,  with  Chianti  to  wash  it  down.  Two 
Italian  street-singers  furnished  the  music,  and  Made- 
moiselle la  Modele  danced  as  only  a  model  can. 


A   NOUVEAU 


TAKING  PICTURES  TO  THE  SALON 


EVER  since    New  Year's,  when    Bishop   began 
his  great  composition   for  the  Salon,  our   Hfe 
at    the   studio   had   been    sadly  disarranged ; 
for  Bishop  had  so  completely  buried  himself  in  his 

work    that    I    was    com- 


pelled to  combine  the 
functions  of  cook  with 
those  of  chambermaid.- 
This  double  work,  with 
increasing  pressure 
from  my  modelling,  re- 
quired longer  hours  at 
night  and  shorter  hours  in  the 
morning.  But  I  was  satisfied, 
for  this  was  to  be  Bishop's  mas- 
terpiece, and  I  knew  from  the 
marvellous  labor  and  spirit  that 
he  put  into  the  work  that  some- 
thing good  would  result. 
The  name  of  his  great  effort  was  "The  Suicide." 
It  was  like  him  to  choose  so  grisly  a  subject,  for  he 
had  a  lawless  nature  and  rebelled  against  the  com- 
monplace. Ghastly  subjects  had  always  fascinated 
him.  From  the  very  beginning  of  our  domestic  part- 
nership he  had  shown  a  taste  for  grim  and  forbidding 

67 


AN    ENGLISH   ART  STU 
DENT 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

things.  Often,  upon  returning  home,  I  had  found 
him  making  sketches  of  armless  beggars,  twisted 
cripples,  and  hunchbacks,  and,  worse  than  all,  dis- 
ease-marked vagabonds.  A  skull-faced  mortal  in  the 
last  stages  of  consumption  was  a  joy  to  him.  It  was 
useless  for  me  to  protest  that  he  was  failing  to  find 
the  best  in  him  by  developing  his  unwholesome  tastes. 
"  Wait,"  he  would  answer  patiently  ;  "  the  thing  that 
has  suffering  and  character,  that  is  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary, it  is  the  thing  that  will  strike  and  live." 

The  suicide  was  a  young  woman  gowned  in  black  ; 
she  was  poised  in  the  act  of  plunging  into  the  Seine  ; 
a  babe  was  tightly  clutched  to  her  breast ;  and  be- 
hind the  unspeakable  anguish  in  her  eyes  was  a 
hungry  hope,  a  veiled  assurance  of  the  peace  to 
come.  It  fascinated  and  haunted  me  beyond  all 
expression.  It  was  infinitely  sad,  tragic,  and  terri- 
ble, for  it  reached  with  a  sure  touch  to  the  very 
lowest  depth  of  human  agony.  The  scene  was  the 
dead  of  night,  and  only  the  dark  towers  of  Notre- 
Dame  broke  the  even  blackness  of  the  sky,  save  for 
a  faint  glow  that  touched  the  lower  stretches  from 
the  distant  lamps  of  the  city.  In  the  darkness  only 
the  face  of  the  suicide  was  illuminated,  and  that  but 
dimly,  though  sufficiently  to  disclose  the  wonderfully 
complex  emotions  that  crowded  upon  her  soul.  This 
illumination  came  from  three  ghastly  green  lights  on 
the  water  below.  The  whole  tone  of  the  picture  was 
a  black,  sombre  green. 

That  was  all  after  the  painting  had  been  finished. 
The  making  of  it  is  a  story  by  itself.     From  the  first 

68 


TAKING   PICTURES   TO   THE  SALON 

week  in  January  to  the  first  week  in  March  the  studio 
was  a  junk-shop  of  the  most  uncanny  sort.  In  order 
to  pose  his  model  in  the  act  of  plunging  into  the 
river,  Bishop  had  rigged  up  a  tackle,  which,  depending 
from  the  ceiling,  caught  the  model  at  the  waist,  after 
the  manner  of  a  fire-escape  belt,  and  thus  half  sus- 
pended her.  He  secured  his  green  tone  and  night 
effect  by  covering  nearly  all  the  skylight  and  the 
window  with  green  tissue-paper,  besides  covering 
the  floor  and  walls  with  green  rugs  and  draperies. 

The  model  behaved  very  well  in  her  unusual  pose, 
but  the  babe — that  was  the  rub.  The  model  did 
not  happen  to  possess  one,  and  Bishop  had  not  yet 
learned  the  difficulties  attending  the  procuring  and 
posing  of  infants.  In  the  first  place,  he  found  scores 
of  babes,  but  not  a  mother,  however  poor,  willing 
to  permit  her  babe  to  be  used  as  a  model,  and  a 
model  for  so  gruesome  a  situation.  But  after  he  had 
almost  begun  to  despair,  and  had  well  advanced  with 
his  woman  model,  an  Italian  M'^oman  came  one  day 
and  informed  him  that  she  could  get  an  infant  from 
a  friend  of  her  sister's,  if  he  would  pay  her  one 
franc  a  day  for  the  use  of  it.  Bishop  eagerly  made 
the  bargain.     Then  a  new  series  of  troubles  began. 

The  babe  objected  most  emphatically  to  the  ar- 
rangement. It  refused  to  nestle  in  the  arms  of  a 
strange  woman  about  to  plunge  into  eternity,  and 
the  strange  woman  had  no  knack  at  all  in  soothing 
the  infant's  outraged  feelings.  Besides,  the  model 
was  unable  to  meet  the  youngster's  frequent  de- 
mands for  what  it  was  accustomed  to  have,  and  the 

69 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

mother,  who  was  engaged  elsewhere,  had  to  be 
drummed  up  at  exasperatingly  frequent  intervals. 
All  this  told  upon  both  Bishop  and  Francinette,  the 
model,  and  they  took  turns  in  swearing  at  the  unruly 
brat,  Bishop  in  English  and  Francinette  in  French. 
Neither  knew  how  to  swear  in  Italian,  or  things 
might  have  been  different.  I  happened  in  upon 
these  scenes  once  in  a  while,  and  my  enjoyment  so 
exasperated  Bishop  that  he  threw  paint-tubes,  bot- 
tles, and  everything  else  at  me  that  he  could  reach, 
and  once  or  twice  locked  me  out  of  the  studio,  com- 
pelling me  to  kick  my  shins  in  the  cold  street  for 
hours  at  a  time.  On  such  occasions  I  would  stand 
in  the  court  looking  up  at  our  window,  expecting 
momentarily  that  the  babe  would  come  flying  down 
from  that  direction. 

When  Bishop  was  not  sketching  and  painting  he 
was  working  up  his  inspiration  ;  and  that  was  worst 
of  all.  His  great  effort  was  to  get  himself  into  a 
suicidal  mood.  He  would  sit  for  hours  on  the  floor, 
his  face  between  his  knees,  imagining  all  sorts  of 
wrongs  and  slights  that  the  heartless  world  had  put 
upon  him.  His  husband  had  beaten  him  and  gone 
off  with  another  woman  ;  he  had  tried  with  all  his 
woman-heart  to  bear  the  cross ;  hunger  came  to 
pinch  and  torture  him  ;  he  sought  work,  failed  to 
find  it ;  sought  charity;  failed  to  find  that ;  his  babe 
clutched  at  his  empty  breasts  and  cried  piteously  for 
food ;  his  heart  broken,  all  hope  gone,  even  God 
forgetting  him,  he  thought  of  the  dark,  silent  river, 
the   great  cold  river,   that  has  brought  everlasting 

70 


TAKING   PICTURES   TO   THE   SALON 

peace  to  countless  thousands  of  suffering  young 
mothers  like  him  ;  he  went  to  the  river  ;  he  looked 
back  upon  the  faint  glow  of  the  city's  lights  in  the 
distance  ;  he  cast  his  glance  up  to  the  grim  towers 
of  Notre-Dame,  standing  cold  and  pitiless  against 
the  blacker  sky  ;  he  looked  down  upon  the  black 
Seine,  the  great  writhing  python,  so  willing  to  swal- 
low him  up  ;  he  clutched  his  babe  to  his  breast, 
gasped  a  prayer  .  .  . 

At  other  times  he  would  haunt  the  Morgue  and 
study  the  faces  of  those  who  had  died  by  felo-de-se  ; 
he  would  visit  the  hospitals  and  study  the  dying ; 
he  would  watch  the  actions  and  read  the  disordered 
thoughts  of  lunatics  ;  he  would  steal  along  the  banks 
of  the  river  on  dark  nights  and  study  the  silent  mys- 
tery and  tragedy  of  it,  and  the  lights  that  gave  shape 
to  its  terrors.     In  the  end  I  grew  afraid  of  him. 

But  all  things  have  an  end.  Bishop's  great  work 
was  finished  in  the  first  days  of  March.  Slowly,  but 
surely,  his  native  exuberance  of  spirits  returned. 
He  would  eat  and  sleep  like  a  rational  being.  His 
eyes  lost  their  haunted  look,  and  his  cheeks  filled 
out  and  again  took  on  their  healthy  hue.  And  then 
he  invited  his  friends  and  some  critics  to  inspect  his 
composition,  and  gave  a  great  supper  in  celebration 
of  the  completion  of  his  task.  Very  generous  praise 
was  given  him.  Among  the  critics  and  masters  came 
Gerome  and  Laurens  at  his  earnest  supplication,  and 
it  was  good  to  see  their  delight  and  surprise,  and  to 
note  that  they  had  no  fault  to  find, — was  not  the 
picture  finished,  and  would  not  criticism  from  them 

71 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

at  this  juncture  have  hurt  the  boy  without  accom- 
plishing any  good  ?  Well,  the  painting  secured  hon- 
orable mention  in  the  exhibition,  and  five  years  later 
the  French  government  completed  the  artist's  happi- 
ness by  buying  one  of  his  pictures  for  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gallery. 

But  about  the  picture :  the  canvas  was  eight  by 
ten  feet,  and  a  frame  had  to  be  procured  for  it. 
Now,  frames  are  expensive,  and  Bishop  had  impov- 
erished himself  for  material  and  model  hire.  So  he 
employed  a  carpenter  in  the  court  to  make  a  frame 
of  thick  pine  boards,  which  we  painted  a  deep  black, 
with  a  gold  cornice.  The  whole  cost  was  twenty-five 
francs. 

Next  day  we  hired  a  good-sized  voiture-a-bras  at 
eight  sous  an  hour,  and  proceeded  to  get  the  tableau 
down  to  the  court.  It  was  a  devilish  job,  for  the 
ceilings  were  low  and  the  stairs  narrow  and  crooked. 
The  old  gentleman  below  us  was  nearly  decapitated 
by  poking  his  head  out  of  his  door  at  an  inopportune 
moment,  and  the  lady  below  him  almost  wiped  the 
still  wet  babe  from  the  canvas  with  her  gown  as  she 
tried  to  squeeze  past.  The  entire  court  turned  out 
to  wish  Bishop  good  success. 

The  last  day  on  which  pictures  are  admitted  to  the 

Salon,  there  to  await  the  merciless  decision  of  the 

judges,  is  a  memorable  one.     In  sumptuous  studios. 

in  wretched  garrets  ;  amid  affluence,  amid  scenes  of 

squalor  and  hunger,  artists  of  all  kinds  and  degrees 

have  been  squeezing  thousands  of  tubes  and  daubing 

thousands  of  canvases  in  preparation  for  the  great 

72 


TAKING   PICTURES   TO   THE  SALON 

day.  From  every  corner  of  Paris,  from  every  quarter 
of  France  and  Europe,  the  canvases  come  pouring 
into  the  Salon.  Every  conceivable  idea,  fad,  and 
folly  is  represented  in  the  collection,  and  most  of 
them  are  poor  ;  but  in  each  and  every  one  a  fond 
hope  centres,  an  ambition  is  staked. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  most  of  these  pictures  are 
worked  upon  until  the  very  last  day  ;  indeed,  many 
of  them  are  snatched  unfinished  from  their  easels,  to 
receive  the  finishing  touches  in  the  dust  and  confu- 
sion and  deafening  noise  of  the  great  hall  where  they 
are  all  dumped  like  so  much  merchandise.  We  saw 
one  artist  who,  not  having  finished  his  picture,  was 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS   AND   AN   UNFINISHED   PICTURE 


putting  on  the  final  touches  as  it  was  borne  ahead  of 
him  along  the  street  on  the  back  of  a  commission- 
naire.    And  all  this  accounts  for  the  endless  smearing 

73 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

everywhere  noticeable,  and  for  the  frantic  endeavors 
of  the  artists  to  repair  the  damage  at  the  last  moment. 

One  great  obstacle  to  poor  artists  is  the  rigid  rule 
requiring  that  all  tableaux  shall  be  framed.  These 
frames  are  costly.  As  a  result,  some  artists  paint 
pictures  of  the  same  size  year  after  year,  so  that  the 
same  frame  may  be  used  for  all,  and  others  resort  to 
such  makeshifts  as  Bishop  was  compelled  to  employ. 
But  these  makeshifts  must  be  artistically  done,  or  the 
canvases  are  ignored  by  the  judges.  These  efforts 
give  rise  to  many  startling  effects. 

It  was  not  very  long,  after  an  easy  pull  over  the 
Boulevard  St.-Germain,  before  we  crossed  the  Seine 
at  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde,  traversed  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde,  and  turned  into  the  Champs-Elysees, 
where,  not  far  away,  loomed  the  Palais  des  Beaux- 
Arts,  in  which  the  Salon  is  annually  held  in  March. 
The  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees,  crowded  as  it 
usually  is  in  the  afternoons,  was  now  jammed 
with  cabs,  omnibuses,  hand-carts,  and  all  sorts  of 
moving  vans,  mingling  with  the  fashionable  car- 
riages on  their  way  to  the  Bois.  The  proletarian 
vehicles  contained  art, — art  by  the  ton.  The  upper 
decks  of  the  omnibuses  were  crowded  with  artists 
carrying  their  pictures  because  they  could  not  afford 
more  than  the  three-sous  fare.  And  such  an  assort- 
ment of  artists  ! 

There  were  some  in  affluent  circumstances,  who 
rolled  along  voluptuously  in  cabs  on  an  expenditure 
of  thirty-five  francs,  holding  their  precious  tableaux 
and  luxuriantly  smoking  cigarettes. 

74 


TAKING   PICTURES   TO   THE  SALON 

The  commissionnaires  had  a  great  day  of  it.  They 
are  the  ones  usually  seen  asleep  on  the  street  cor- 
ners, where,  when  awake,  they  varnish  boots  or  bear 
loads  by  means  of  a  contrivance  on  their  backs.     On 


THE  UPPER   DECKS   OF   THE  OMNIBUSES   WERE  CROWDED 


this  day  every  one  of  them  in  Paris  was  loaded  down 
with  pictures. 

Many  were  the  hard-up  students,  like  Bishop, 
tugging  hand- carts,  or  pairing  to  carry  by  hand  pic- 
tures too  large  to  be  borne  by  a  single  person.  And 
great  fun  they  got  out  of  it  all. 

Opposite  the  Palais  de  Glace  was  a  perfect  sea  of 
vehicles,  artists,  porters,  and  policemen,  all  inextri- 
cably tangled  up,  all  shouting  or  groaning,  and  wet 
pictures  suffering.  One  artist  nearly  had  a  fit  when 
he  saw  a  full  moon  wiped  off  his  beautiful  landscape, 
and  he  would  have  killed  the  guilty  porter  had  not 
the  students  interfered.    Portraits  of  handsome  ladies 

75 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

with  smudged  noses  and  smeared  eyes  were  common. 
Expensive  gold  frames  lost  large  sections  of  their 
corners.     But  still  they  were  pouring  in. 

With  infinite  patience  and  skill  Bishop  gradually 
worked  his  voiture-a-bras  through  the  maze,  and 
soon  his  masterpiece  was  in  the  crushing  mass  at 
the  wide  entrance  to  the  Salon.  There  it  was  seized 
and  rushed  along,  and  Bishop  received  in  return  a 
slip  of  paper  bearing  a  number. 

While  within  the  building  we  reconnoitred.  Amid 
the  confusion  of  howling  inspectors,  straining  porters 
bearing  heavy  pictures,  carpenters  erecting  par- 
titions, and  a  dust-laden  atmosphere,  numerous  ar- 
tists were  working  with  furious  haste  upon  their 
unfinished  productions.  Some  were  perched  upon 
ladders,  others  squatted  upon  the  floor,  and  one  had 
his  model  posing  nude  to  the  waist ;  she  was  indif- 
ferent to  the  attention  that  she  received.  Thought- 
ful mistresses  stood  affectionately  beside  their  artist 
amants,  furnishing  them  with  delicate  edibles  and 
lighting  cigarettes  for  them. 

Some  of  the  pictures  were  so  large  that  they  were 
brought  in  rolled  up.  One  artist  had  made  himself 
into  a  carpenter  to  mount  his  mammoth  picture. 
Frightful  and  impossible  paintings  were  numerous, 
but  the  painter  of  each  expected  a  premiere  medaille 
d'honneur. 

It  was  nearing  six  o'clock,  the  closing  hour.  Chic 
demoiselle  artistes  came  dashing  up  in  cabs,  bringing 
with  them,  to  insure  safe  delivery,  their  everlasting 
still-life  subjects. 

76 


TAKING   PICTURES   TO   THE   SALON 

Shortly  before  six  the  work  in  the  building  was 
suspended  by  a  commotion  outside.  It  was  a  con- 
tingent of  students  from  the  Beaux-Arts  marching 
up  the  Champs-Elysees,  yelling  and  dancing  like 
maniacs  and  shaking  their  heavy  sticks,  the  irresist- 
ible Sarah  Brown  leading  as  drum-major.  She  was 
gorgeously  arrayed  in  the  most  costly  silks  and  laces, 
and  looked  a  dashing  Amazon.  Then,  as  always, 
she  was  perfectly  happy  with  her  beloved  etudiants, 
who  worshipped  her  as  a  goddess.  She  halted  them 
in  front  of  the  building,  where  they  formed  a  circle 
round  her,  and  there,  as  director  of  ceremonies,  she 
required  them  to  sing  chansons,  dance,  make  comic 
speeches,  and  "  blaguer"  the  arriving  artists. 

The  last  van  was  unloaded  ;  the  great  doors  closed 
with  a  bang,  and  the  stirring  day  was  ended.  All 
the  students,  even  the  porters,  then  joined  hands 
and  went  singing,  howling,  and  skipping  down  the 
Champs-Elysees,  and  wishing  one  another  success  at 
the  coming  exhibition.  At  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
we  met  a  wild-eyed  artist  running  frantically  toward 
the  Salon  with  his  belated  picture.  The  howls  of 
encouragement  that  greeted  him  lent  swifter  wings 
to  his  leofs. 

The  pictures  finally  installed,  a  jury  composed  of 
France's  greatest  masters  pass  upon  them.  The 
endless  procession  of  paintings  is  passed  before 
them  ;  the  raising  of  their  hands  means  approval, 
silence  means  condemnation  ;  and  upon  those  simple 
acts  depends  the  happiness  or  despair  of  thousands. 
But  depression  does  not  long  persist,  and  the  judg- 

77 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

ment  is  generally  accepted  in  the  end  as  just  and 
valuable.  For  the  students,  in  great  part,  flock  to 
the  country  on  sketching  tours,  for  which  arrange- 
ments had  been  already  made  ;  and  there  the  most 
deeply  depressed  spirits  must  revive  and  the  habit 
of  work  and  hope  come  into  play.  Year  after  year 
the  same  artists  strive  for  recognition  at  the  Salon  ; 
and  finally,  when  they  fail  at  that,  they  reflect  that 
there  is  a  great  world  outside  of  the  Salon,  where 
conscientious  effort  is  acceptable.  And.  after  all,  a 
medal  at  the  Salon  is  not  the  only  reward  that  life 
has  to  offer. 

And  then,  it  is  not  always  good  for  a  student  to 
be  successful  from  the  start.  Just  as  his  social  en- 
vironment in  Paris  tries  his  strength  and  determines 
the  presence  or  absence  of  qualities  that  are  as  use- 
ful to  a  successful  career  as  special  artistic  qualifica- 
tions, so  the  trial  by  fire  in  the  Salon  exhibitions 
hardens  and  toughens  him  for  the  serious  work  of 
his  life  ahead.  Too  early  success  has  ruined  more 
artists  than  it  has  helped.  It  is  interesting  also  to 
observe  that,  as  a  rule,  the  students  who  eventually 
secure  the  highest  places  in  art  are  those  whose 
difficulties  have  been  greatest.  The  lad  with  the 
pluck  to  live  on  a  crust  in  a  garret,  and  work  and 
study  under  conditions  of  poverty  and  self-denial 
that  would  break  any  but  the  stoutest  heart,  is  the 
one  from  whom  to  expect  renown  in  the  years  to 
come.  Ah,  old  Paris  is  the  harshest  but  wisest  of 
mothers ! 


78 


H  !  ah  !  vive  les 
Quat'z'  Arts 
Au  Moulin 
Rouge  —  en  route  !" 
wildly  rang  through 
the  lamplit  streets  of  Paris  as  cab  after  cab  and 
'bus  after  'bus  went  thundering  across  town  toward 
Montmartre,  heavily  freighted  with  brilliantly  cos- 
tumed revellers  of  les  Quat'z'  Arts.  Parisians  ran 
from  their  dinner-tables  to  the  windows  and  bal- 
conies, blase  boulevardiers  paused  in  their  evening 
stroll  or  looked  up  from  their  papers  at  the  cafe- 
tables,  waiters  and  swearing  cabbies  and  yelling 
newsboys  stopped  in  the  midst  of  their  various 
duties,  and  all  knowingly  shook  their  heads,  "Ah, 
ce  sont  les  Quat'z'  Arts  !" 

For  to-night  was  the  great  annual  ball  of  the 
artists,  when  all  artistic  Paris  crawls  from  its  myste- 
rious depths  to  revel  in  a  splendid  carnival  possible 
only  to  the  arts.  Every  spring,  after  the  pictures 
have  been  sent  to  the  Salon,  and  before  thq  students 

79 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

have  scattered  for  the  summer  vacation,  the  artists 
of  Paris  and  the  members  of  all  the  ateliers  of  the 
four  arts — painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  and  en- 
graving— combine  their  forces  in  producing  a  spec- 
tacle of  regal  splendor,  seen  nowhere  else  in  the 
world  ;  and  long  are  the  weeks  and  hard  the  work 
and  vast  the  ingenuity  devoted  to  preparations, — the 
designing  of  costumes  and  the  building  of  gorgeous 
floats. 

During  the  last  three  weeks  the  eleves  of  the 
Atelier  Gerome  abandoned  their  studies,  forgot  ail 
about  the  concours  and  the  Prix  de  Rome,  and  de- 
voted all  their  energies  to  the  construction  of  a 
colossal  figure  of  Gerome's  great  war  goddess,  "  Bel- 
lona."  It  was  a  huge  task,  but  the  students  worked 
it  out  with  a  will.  Yards  of  sackcloth,  rags,  old 
coats,  paint  rags,  besides  pine  timbers,  broken  easels 
and  stools,  endless  wire  and  rope,  went  into  the 
making  of  the  goddess's  frame,  and  this  was  cov- 
ered with  plaster  of  Paris  dexterously  moulded  into 
shape.  Then  it  was  properly  tinted  and  painted  and 
mounted  on  a  chariot  of  gold,  A  Grecian  frieze  of 
galloping  horses,  mounted,  the  clever  work  of  Siffert, 
was  emblazoned  on  the  sides  of  the  chariot.  And 
what  a  wreck  the  atelier  was  after  all  was  finished ! 
Sacre  nom  d'un  chien  !  How  the  gardiens  must 
have  sworn  when  cleaning-day  came  round ! 

The  ateliers  in  the  Ecole  are  all  rivals,  and  each 
had  been  secretly  preparing  its  coup  with  which  to 
capture  the  grand  prix  at  the  bal. 

The  great  day  came  at  last.     The  students  of  our 

80 


THE   MOULIN    ROUGE   ON    THE   NIGHT    OF    THE    BALL 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'  ARTS 

atelier  were  perfectly  satisfied  with  their  handiwork, 
and  the  massier  made  all  happy  by  ordering  a  retreat 
to  the  Cafe  des  Deux  Magots,  where  success  to  the 
goddess  was  drunk  in  steaming  "grog  Americain." 
I'hen  Bellona  began  her  perilous  journey  across 
Paris  to  Montmartre  and  the  Moulin  Rouge.  This 
was  not  an  easy  task,  as  she  was  fifteen  feet  high ; 
signs  and  lamp-posts  suffered,  and  sleepy  cab-horses 
danced  as  their  terrified  gaze  beheld  the  giant  god- 
dess with  her  uplifted  sword.  Crowds  watched  the 
progress  of  Bellona  on  the  Avenue  de  1' Opera,  drawn 
by  half  a  hundred  students  yelling  the  national  hymn. 
The  pull  up  the  steep  slope  of  Montmartre  was 
heavy,  but  in  less  than  two  hours  from  the  start  at 
the  Ecole  the  goddess  was  safely  housed  in  the 
depths  of  the  Moulin  Rouge,  there  to  await  her 
triumphs  of  the  night. 

Bishop,  besides  doing  his  share  in  the  preparation 
of  the  figure,  had  the  equally  serious  task  of  devising 
a  costume  for  his  own  use  at  the  ball.  It  was  not 
until  the  very  last  day  that  he  made  his  final  decision, 
— to  go  as  a  Roman  orator.  Our  supply  of  linen  was 
meagre,  but  our  only  two  clean  bed-sheets  and  a  few 
towels  were  sufficient,  and  two  kind  American  ladies 
who  were  studying  music  and  who  lived  near  the  old 
church  of  St.  Sulpice  did  the  fitting  of  a  toga.  The 
soles  of  a  pair  of  slippers  from  which  Bishop  cut  the 
tops  served  as  sandals,  and  some  studio  properties 
in  the  way  of  Oriental  bracelets  completed  his  cos- 
tume. I  was  transformed  into  an  Apache  Indian  by 
a  generous  rubbing  into  my  skin  of  burnt  sienna  and 

83 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


cadmium,  which  I  was  weeks  in  getting  rid  of;  a 
blanket  and  some  chicken-feathers  finished  my  array. 
Our  friend  Cameron,  next  door,  went  in  his  Scotch 
kilts.  After  supper  we  entered  the  Boul'  Mich' 
and  proceeded  to  the  Cafe  de  la  Source,  where  the 
students  of  the  Atelier  Gerome  were  to  rendezvous. 
The    Boul'    was    a    spectacle    that    night.      Time 

had  rolled  back  the  cur- 
tain of  centuries  ;  ancient 
cemeteries  had  yielded  up 
their  dead ;  and  living 
ghosts  of  the  ages  packed 
all  the  gay  cafes.  History 
from  the  time  of  Adam 
had  sent  forth  its  tra- 
ditions, and  Eves  rubbed 
elbows  with  ballet-girls. 
There  was  never  a  jollier 
night  in  the  history  of  the 
Qu artier  Latin. 

We  found  the  Cafe  de 
la  Source  already  crowded 
by  the  Gerome  contingent  and  their  models  and 
mistresses,  all  en  costume  and  bubbling  with  mer- 
riment and  mischief.  It  was  ten  o'clock  before  all 
the  students  had  arrived.  Then  we  formed  in  pro- 
cession, and  yelled  and  danced  past  all  the  cafes 
on  the  Boul'  Mich'  to  the  Luxembourg  Palace  and 
the  Theatre  de  I'Odeon,  to  take  the  'buses  of  the 
Montmartre  Hne.  These  we  quickly  seized  and 
overloaded  in  violation  of  the  law,  and  then,  dashing 

84 


TWO   COSTUMES 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'   ARTS 

down  the  quiet  streets  of  the  Rive  Gauche,  headed 
for  Montmartre,  making  a  noise  to  rouse  the  dead. 
As  we  neared  the  Place  Blanche  we  found  the  little 
streets  merging  from  different  quarters  crowded  with 
people  in  costume,  some  walking  and  others  crowd- 
ing almost  innumerable  vehicles,  and  the  balconies 
and  portes-cocheres  packed  with  spectators.  The 
Place  Blanche  fronts  the  Moulin  Rouge,  and  it  was 
crowded  and  brilliantly  lighted.  The  fagade  of  the 
Moulin  Rouge  was  a  blaze  of  electric  lights  and 
colored  lanterns,  and  the  revolving  wings  of  the  mill 
flamed  across  the  sky.  It  was  a  perfect  night.  The 
stars  shone,  the  air  was  warm  and  pleasant,  and  the 
trees  were  tipped  with  the  glistening  clean  foliage 
of  early  spring.  The  bright  cafes  fronting  the  Place 
were  crowded  with  gay  revellers.  The  poets  of  Bo- 
hemia were  there,  and  gayly  attired  cocottes  as- 
sisted them  in  their  fun  at  the  cafe  tables,  extend- 
ing far  out  into  the  boulevard  under  the  trees. 
At  one  corner  was  Gerome's  private  studio,  high 
up  in  the  top  of  the  house,  and  standing  on  the 
balcony  was  Gerome  himself,  enjoying  the  brilliant 
scene  below. 

As  the  Bal  des  Quat'z'  Arts  is  not  open  to  the 
public,  and  as  none  but  accredited  members  of  the 
four  arts  are  admitted,  the  greatest  precautions  are 
taken  to  prevent  the  intrusion  of  outsiders  ;  and 
wonderful  is  the  ingenuity  exercised  to  outwit  the 
authorities.  Inside  the  vestibule  of  the  Moulin  was 
erected  a  tribune  (a  long  bar),  behind  which  sat  the 
massiers  of   the   different   studios   of   Paris,   all   in 

85 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

striking  costumes.  It  was  their  task  not  only  to 
identify  the  holders  of  tickets,  but  also  to  pass  on 
the  suitability  of  the  costumes  of  such  as  were  other- 
wise eligible  to  admittance.  The  costumes  must  all 
have  conspicuous  merit  and  be  thoroughly  artistic. 
Nothing  black,  no  dominos,  none  in  civilian  dress, 
may  pass.  Many  and  loud  were  the  protestations 
that  rang  through  the  vestibule  as  one  after  another 
was  turned  back  and  firmly  conducted  to  the  door. 

Once  past  the  implacable  tribunes,  we  entered  a 
dazzling  fairy-land,  a  dream  of  rich  color  and  reck- 
less abandon.  From  gorgeous  kings  and  queens  to 
wild  savages,  all  were  there  ;  courtiers  in  silk,  naked 
gladiators,  nymphs  with  paint  for  clothing, — all  were 
there ;  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  perfume  of 
roses.  Shouts,  laughter,  the  silvery  clinking  of 
glasses,  a  whirling  mass  of  life  and  color,  a  bewilder- 
ing kaleidoscope,  a  maze  of  tangled  visions  in  the 
soft  yellow  haze  that  filled  the  vast  hall.  There  was 
no  thought  of  the  hardness  and  sordidness  of  life, 
no  dream  of  the  morrow.  It  was  a  wonderful  witch- 
ery that  sat  upon  every  soul  there. 

This  splendid  picture  was  framed  by  a  wall  of 
lodges,  each  sumptuously  decorated  and  hung  with 
banners,  tableaux,  and  greens,  each  representing  a 
particular  atelier  and  adorned  in  harmony  with  the 
dominant  ideals  of  their  masters.  The  lodge  of  the 
Atelier  Gerome  was  arranged  to  represent  a  Grecian 
temple ;  all  the  decorations  and  accessories  were 
pure  Grecian,  cleverly  imitated  by  the  master's  de- 
voted pupils.     That  of  the  Atelier  Cormon   repre- 

86 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'  ARTS 

sented  a  huge  caravan  of  the  prehistoric  big-muscled 
men  that  appeal  so  strongly  to  Cormon  ;  large  skel- 
etons of  extinct  animals,  giant  ferns,  skins,  and  stone 
implements  were  scattered  about,  while  the  students 
of  Cormon's  atelier,  almost  naked,  with  bushy  hair 
and  clothed  in  skins,  completed  the  picture.  And 
so  it  was  with  all  the  lodges,  each  typifying  a  special 
subject,  and  carrying  it  out  with  perfect  fidelity  to 
the  minutest  detail. 

The  event  of  the  evening  was  the  grand  cortege ; 
this,  scheduled  for  one  o'clock,  was  awaited  with 
eager  expectancy,  for  with  it  would  come  the  test  of 
supremacy, — the  awarding  of  the  prize  for  the  best. 
For  this  was  the  great  art  centre  of  the  world,  and 
this  night  was  the  one  in  which  its  rivalries  would 
strain  the  farthest  reach  of  skill. 

Meanwhile,  the  great  hall  swarmed  with  life  and 
blazed  with  color  and  echoed  with  the  din  of  merry 
voices.  Friends  recognized  one  another  with  great 
difficulty.  And  there  was  Gerome  himself  at  last, 
gaudily  gowned  in  the  rich  green  costume  of  a  Chi- 
nese mandarin,  his  white  moustache  dyed  black,  and 
his  white  locks  hidden  beneath  a  black  skull-cap 
topped  with  a  bobbing  appendage.  And  there  also 
was  Jean  Paul  Laurens,  in  the  costume  of  a  Norman, 
the  younger  Laurens  as  Charlemagne.  Leandre,  the 
caricaturist,  was  irresistible  as  a  caricature  of  Queen 
Victoria.  Puech,  the  sculptor,  made  a  graceful  cour- 
tier of  the  Marie  Antoinette  regime.  Willett  was  a 
Roman  emperor.  Will  Dodge  was  loaded  with  the 
crown,  silks,  and  jewels  of  a   Byzantine  emperor. 

87 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

Louis  Loeb  was  a  desperate  Tartar  bandit.  Cas- 
taigne  made  a  hit  as  an  Italian  jurist.  Steinlen, 
Grasset,  Forain,  Rodin, — in  fact,  nearly  all  the  re- 
nowned painters,  sculptors,  and  illustrators  of  Paris 


--;'<<  ,",i  --  "'ji  Vendredi  22  Avril  1898  a  : 


c  carlt.  rigoureusement  perMonnelle  A  I 
titalatre,   doit,  pour  etre   vjSable, 
qu  iliU,    U    timbre    du    Comity   et    i 
Tout  porteur  d'une  carte  non  pcrsoni 
coiUrdle  par  la  deliguis  des  Alelien.    \ 
Le  service  d'ordre  exigers^  n^ 


Oe  /a  pari  de  M— 


"-Atelier  GEROMS 


TICKET  FOR  THE  BAL  DES   QUAT'z'    ARTS.      DRAWN   BY   C.    LBANDRE 
(Original  size  6^  x  9^  inches) 

were  there  ;  and  besides  them  were  the  countless 
students  and  models. 

"La  cavalcade!  le  grand  cortege!"  rose  the  cry 
above  the  crashing  of  the  band  and  the  noise  of  the 
revellers  ;  and  then  all  the  dancing  stopped.  Emerg- 
ing from  the  gardens  through  the  open  glass  door, 
bringing  with  it  a  pleasant  blast  of  the  cool  night 
air,  was  the  vanguard  of  the  great  procession.  The 
orchestra  struck  up  the  "Victor's  March,"  and  a 
great  cry  of  welcome  rang  out. 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'  ARTS 

First  came  a  band  of  yelling  Indians  dancing  in, 
waving  dieir  spears  and  tomahawks,  and  so  cleaving 
a  way  for  the  parade.  A  great  roar  filled  the  glass- 
domed  hall  when  the  first  float  appeared.  It  was 
daring  and  unique,  but  a  masterpiece.  Borne  upon 
the  shoulders  of  Indians,  who  were  naked  but  for 
skins  about  their  loins,  their  bodies  stained  a  dark 
brown  and  striped  with  paint,  was  a  gorgeous  bed 
of  fresh  flowers  and  trailing  vines  ;  and  reclining  in 
this  bed  were  four  of  the  models  of  Paris,  lying  on 
their  backs,  head  to  head,  their  legs  upraised  to  sup- 
port a  circular  tablet  of  gold.  Upon  this,  high  in 
air,  proud  and  superb,  was  the  great  Susanne  in  all 


LBANDRE  AS   QUEEN    VICTORIA 


her  peerless  beauty  of  face  and  form, — simply  that 
and  nothing  more.  A  sparkling  crown  of  jewels 
glowed  in  her  reddish  golden  hair ;  a  flashing  girdle 
of  electric  lights  encircled  her  slender  waist,  bringing 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

out  the  marvellous  whiteness  of  her  skin,  and  with 
deHcate  shadows  and  tones  modelUng  the  superb 
contour  of  her  figure.  She  looked  a  goddess — and 
knew  it.  The  crowd  upon  whom  she  looked  down 
stood  for  a  while  spell-bound,  and  then,  with  a  waving 
of  arms  and  flags,  came  a  great  shout,  "  Susanne ! 
Susanne  !  la  belle  Susanne  !"  Susanne  only  smiled. 
Was  she  not  the  queen  of  the  models  of  Paris  ? 

Then  came  Bellona  !  Gerome,  when  he  conceived 
and  executed  the  idea  embodied  in  this  wonderful 
figure,  concentrated  his  efforts  to  produce  a  most 
terrifying,  fear-inspiring  image  typifying  the  horrors 
of  war.  The  straining  goddess,  poised  upon  her 
toes  to  her  full  height,  her  face  uplifted,  her  head 
thrust  forward,  with  staring  eyes  and  screaming 
mouth,  her  short  two-edged  sword  in  position  for  a 
sweeping  blow,  her  glittering  round  shield  and  her 
coat  of  mail,  a  huge  angry  python  darting  its  tongue 
and  raising  its  green  length  from  the  folds  of  her 
drapery, — all  this  terrible  figure,  reproduced  with 
marvellous  fidelity  and  magnified  tenfold,  over- 
whelmed the  thousands  upon  whom  it  glowered. 
Surrounding  the  golden  chariot  was  a  guard  of 
Roman  and  Greek  gladiators,  emperors,  warriors,  and 
statesmen.  From  the  staring  eyes  of  Bellona  flashed 
green  fire,  whose  uncanny  shafts  pierced  the  yellow 
haze  of  the  ball-room.  Under  a  storm  of  cheers  Bel- 
lona went  on  her  way  past  the  tribune  of  the  judges. 

Following  Bellona  came  a  beautiful  reproduction 
of  Gerome's  classical  "Tanagra,"  which  adorns  the 
sculpture  gallery  of  the  Luxembourg.     The  figure 

90 


THE    GRAND   CAVALCADE 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'  ARTS 

was  charmingly  personated  by  Marcelle,  a  lithe, 
slim,  graceful  model  of  immature  years,  who  was  a 
rage  in  the  studios.     Gerome  himself  applauded  the 


'^yw^' 


grace  of  her  pose  as  she  swept  past  his  point  of 
vantage  in  the  gallery. 

Behind  Tanagra  came  W ,  also  of  the  Atelier 

Gerome,  dressed  as  an  Apache  warrior  and  mounted 
on  a  bucking  broncho.  He  was  an  American,  from 
Nebraska,  where  he  was  a  cowboy  before  he  became 

93 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

famous  as  a  sculptor.  He  received  a  rousing  welcome 
from  his  fellow-artists. 

The  Atelier  Cormon  came  next, — a  maornificent 
lot  of  brawny  fellows  clothed  in  skins,  and  bearing 
an  immense  litter  made  of  tree  branches  bound  with 
thongs  and  weighted  down  with  strong  naked  women 
and  children  of  a  prehistoric  age.  It  was  a  reproduc- 
tion of  Cormon' s  masterpiece  in  the  Luxembourg 
Gallery,  and  was  one  of  the  most  impressive  compo- 
sitions in  the  whole  parade. 

Then  came  the  works  of  the  many  other  studios, 
all  strong  and  effective,  but  none  so  fine  as  the  three 
first.  The  Atelier  Pascal,  of  architecture,  made  a 
sensation  by  appearing  as  Egyptian  mummies,  each 
mummy  dragging  an  Egyptian  coffin  covered  with 
ancient  inscriptions  and  characters  and  containing  a 
Parisian  model,  all  too  alive  and  sensuous  to  person- 
ate the  ancient  dead.  Another  atelier  strove  hard  for 
the  prize  with  eggs  of  heroic  size,  from  which  as  many 
girls,  as  chicks,  were  breaking  their  way  to  freedom. 

After  the  grand  cortege  had  paraded  the  hall  sev- 
eral times  it  disbanded,  and  the  ball  proceeded  with 
renewed  enthusiasm. 

The  tribune,  wherein  the  wise  judges  sat,  was  a 
large  and  artistic  affair,  built  up  before  the  gallery 
of  the  orchestra  and  flanked  by  broad  steps  leading 
to  its  summit.  It  was  topped  with  the  imperial  es- 
cutcheon of  Rome — battle-axes  bound  in  fagots — and 
bore  the  legend,  "  Mort  aux  Tyrants,"  in  bold  letters. 
Beneath  was  a  row  of  ghastly,  bloody  severed  heads, 
— those  of  dead  tyrants. 

94 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'  ARTS 

The  variety  and  originality  of  the  costumes  were 
bewildering.  One  Frenchman  went  as  a  tombstone, 
his  back,  representing  a  headstone,  containing  a  suit- 
able inscription  and  bearing  wreaths  of  immortelles 
and  colored  beads.  Another,  from  the  Atelier  Bon- 
nat,  went  simply  as  a  stink,  nothing  more,  nothing 
less,  but  it  was  potent.  He  had  saturated  his  skin 
with  the  juice  of  onions  and  garlic,  and  there  was 
never  any  mistaking  his  proximity.  Many  were  the 
gay  Bacchantes  wearing  merely  a  bunch  of  grapes  in 
their  hair  and  a  grape-leaf 

At  intervals  during  the  evening  the  crowd  would 
suddenly  gather  and  form  a  large  circle,  many  deep, 
some  climbing  upon  the  backs  of  others  the  better  to 
see,  those  in  front  squatting  or  lying  upon  the  floor 
to  accommodate  the  mass  behind  them.  The  forma- 
tion of  these  circles  was  the  signal  for  the  danse  du 
ventre.*    The  name  of  some  favorite  model  would  be 


*  The  danse  du  ventre  (literally,  belly-dance)  is  of  Turkish 
origin,  and  was  introduced  to  Paris  by  Turkish  women  from 
Egypt  Afterward  these  women  exhibited  it  in  the  Midway 
Plaisance  of  the  Columbian  Exposition,  Chicago,  and  then  at 
the  California  Midwinter  Exposition,  San  Francisco.  As  danced 
by  Turkish  women  it  consists  of  astonishing  control  and  move- 
ments of  the  abdominal  and  chest  muscles  (hence  its  other  name, 
muscle-dance),  varied  with  more  or  less  graceful  steps  and  gyra- 
tions, with  adjuncts,  such  as  castanets,  scarfs,  etc.,  and  the  seem- 
ingly perilous  use  of  swords.  Such  clothing  is  worn  as  least 
obscures  the  play  of  the  muscles.  It  is  danced  to  a  particular 
Turkish  air,  monotonously  repeated  by  an  orchestra  of  male 
Turkish  musicians,  with  Turkish  instruments,  and  the  dance  is 
done  solus.     A  dance  closely  analogous  to  it.  though  of  a  wholly 

95 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

yelled,  and  the  orchestra  would  strike  up  the  familiar 
Oriental  strain.  And  there  was  always  a  model  to 
respond.  Then  the  regular  dancing  would  be  re- 
sumed until  another  circle  was  formed  and  another 
favorite  goddess  of  the  four  arts  would  be  called  out. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  supper  was  announced 
by  the  appearance  of  two  hundred  white-aproned 
waiters  carrying  scores  of  tables,  chairs,  and  hampers 
of  plate  and  glassware.  The  guests  fell  to  with  a 
will  and  assisted  in  spreading  and  setting  the  tables  ; 
almost  in  a  moment  the  vast  hall  was  a  field  of  snow 
pricked  out  with  the  brilliant  costumes  of  the  revel- 
lers. Then  came  a  frightful  din  of  pounding  on  the 
tables  for  the  supper.  Again  marched  in  the  two 
hundred  waiters,  loaded  with  cases  of  champagne, 
plates  of  creamy  soup,  roasts,  salads,  cheeses,  creams, 
cakes,  ices, — a  feast  of  Bacchus,  indeed.  The  banquet 
was  enjoyed  with  Bohemian  abandon. 

The  twelve  wise  judges  of  the  Tribune  now  gravely 
announced  their  award  of  prizes,  and  each  announce- 
ment was  received  with  ringing  applause.  The  Ate- 
lier Gerome   received   first   prize, — fifty  bottles   of 


independent  origin,  is  the  hula-hula  of  the  Hawaiian  women  ;  but 
the  hula-hula  lacks  the  grace,  dash,  and  abandon  of  the  Turkish 
dance.  The  danse  du  ventre,  as  danced  by  French  and  American 
women  who  have  "picked  it  up,"  is  very  different  from  that  of 
the  Turkish  women — different  both  in  form  and  meaning.  What- 
ever of  suggestiveness  it  may  be  supposed  to  carry  is,  in  the 
adaptation,  grossly  exaggerated,  and  whatever  of  grace  and  special 
muscular  skill,  evidently  acquired  by  Turkish  women  only  from 
long  and  thorough  drill,  is  eliminated.  W.  C.  M. 

96 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'  ARTS 

champagne,  which  were  immediately  taken  posses- 
sion of.  The  other  ateHers  received  smaller  prizes, 
as  their  merits  deserved,  and  all  were  satisfied  and 
happy.     The  banquet  was  resumed. 

Now  here  was  Susanne,  not  content  with  her  tri- 
umph of  the  early  evening,  springing  upon  one  of  the 
central  tables,  sending  the  crockery  and  glassware 
crashing  to  the  floor  with  her  dainty  foot,  and  serenely 
surveying  the  crowd  as  it  greeted  her  tumultuously, 
and,  seizing  a  bottle  of  champagne,  sending  its  foam- 
ing contents  over  as  wide  a  circle  of  revellers  as  her 
strength  could  reach,  laughing  in  pure  glee  over 
her  feat,  and  then  bathing  her  own  white  body  with 
the  contents  of  another  bottle  that  she  poured  over 
herself,  A  superb  Bacchante  she  made  !  A  general 
salute  of  popping  corks  and  clinking  glasses  greeted 
her,  and  she  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  the 
danse  du  ventre.  Susanne  was  so  sure  of  the  adora- 
tion and  affection  of  the  ateliers  !  Her  dance  was  a 
challenge  to  every  other  model  in  the  chamber.  One 
after  another,  and  often  several  at  a  time,  they 
mounted  the  tables,  spurned  the  crockery  to  the 
floor,  and  gave  the  danse  du  ventre.  The  Moulin 
was  indeed  a  wild  scene  of  joyous  abandonment,  and 
from  an  artistic  point  of  view  grand,  a  luminous 
point  in  the  history  of  modern  times.  Here  were 
the  life,  the  color,  the  grace  of  the  living  picture,  with 
a  noble  background  of  surrounding  temples,  altars, 
statues, — a  wonderful  spectacle,  that  artists  can 
understand  and  appreciate. 

The  feast  wore  merrily  through  the  small  hours 

99 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

until  the  cold  blue  dawn  began  to  pale  the  lights  in 
the  ceiling.  Strangely  beautiful  was  this  color  effect, 
as  the  blue  stole  downward  through  the  thick  yellow 
glamour  of  the  hall,  quickening  the  merry-makers 
with  a  new  and  uncanny  light,  putting  them  out  of 
place,  and  warning  them  thence.  But  still  the  ball 
went  rolling  on. 

Though  the  floor  was  slippery  with  wine  and  dan- 
gerous from  broken  glass,  dancing  and  the  cutting 
of  capers  proceeded  without  abatement.  The  favor- 
ite danse  du  ventre  and  songs  and  speeches  filled 
the  night  to  the  end  of  the  ball,  and  then  the  big 
orchestra,  with  a  great  flourish,  played  the  "  Victor's 
March."  This  was  the  signal  for  the  final  proces- 
sion. The  vast  concourse  of  students  and  artists 
poured  forth  into  the  cool,  sweet  morning  air,  and 
the  bal  was  at  an  end. 

Paris  was  asleep,  that  early  April  morning,  save 
for  the  street-sweepers  and  the  milkmaids  and  the 
concierges.  But  the  Place  Blanche  was  very  much 
awake.  The  morningf  air  was  new  wine  in  stale 
veins,  and  it  banished  fatigue. 

"  En  cavalcade  !  en  cavalcade  !"  was  the  cry  ;  and 
in  cavalcade  it  was.  A  great  procession  of  all  the 
costumers  was  formed,  to  march  ensemble  across 
Paris  to  the  Quartier  Latin.  Even  the  proud  Bellona 
was  dragged  along  in  the  rear,  towering  as  high  as 
the  lower  wings  of  the  now  motionless  red  wind- 
mill. She  seemed  to  partake  in  the  revelry,  for  she 
swayed  and  staggered  in  an  alarming  fashion  as  she 
plunged  recklessly  down  the  steeps  of  Montmartre. 


THE   GfeRSME   ATEUER 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'  ARTS 

The  deserted  Rue  Blanche  re-echoed  the  wild  yells 
and  songs  of  the  revellers  and  the  rattling  of  the 
string  of  cabs  in  the  rear.  The  rows  of  heaped  ash- 
cans  that  lined  the  way  were  overturned  one  after 
another,  and  the  oaths  and  threatening  brooms  of 
the  outraged  concierges  went  for  nothing.  Even 
the  poor  diligent  rag-  and  bone-pickers  were  not 
spared ;  their  filled  sacks,  carrying  the  result  of 
their  whole  night's  hunt,  were  taken  from  them  and 
emptied.  A  string  of  carts  heavily  laden  with  stone 
was  captured  near  the  Rue  Lafayette,  the  drivers 
deposed,  and  the  big  horses  sent  plunging  through 
Paris,  driven  by  Roman  charioteers,  and  making 
more  noise  than  a  company  of  artillery. 

When  the  Place  de  1' Opera  was  reached  a  thou- 
sand revellers  swarmed  up  the  broad  stairs  of  the 
Grand  Opera  like  colored  ants,  climbed  upon  the 
lamp-posts  and  candelabra,  and  clustered  all  over 
the  groups  of  statuary  adorning  the  magnificent 
fagade.  The  band  took  up  a  position  in  the  centre 
and  played  furiously,  while  the  artists  danced  ring- 
around-a-rosy,  to  the  amazement  of  the  drowsy  resi- 
dents of  the  neighborhood. 

The  cavalcade  then  re-formed  and  marched  down 
the  Avenue  de  1' Opera  toward  the  Louvre,  where  it 
encountered  a  large  squad  of  street-sweepers  wash- 
ing the  avenue.  In  an  instant  the  squad  had  been 
routed,  and  the  revellers,  taking  the  hose  and  brooms, 
fell  to  and  cleaned  an  entire  block,  making  it  shine 
as  it  had  never  shone  before. 

Cabs  were   captured,   the  drivers  decorated  with 

103 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


Roman  helmets  and  swords,  and  dances  executed  on 
the  tops  of  the  vehicles.  One  character,  with  enor- 
mous india-rubber  shoes,  took  delight  in  permitting 

cabs  to  run  over  his  feet, 
while  he  emitted  howls  of 
agony  that  turned  the  hair 
of  the  drivers  white. 

As  the  immense  caval- 
cade filed  through  the  nar- 
row arches  of  the  Louvre 
court-yard  it  looked  like  a 
mediaeval  army  returning  to 
its  citadel  after  a  victorious 
campaign  ;  the  hundreds  of 
battle-flags,  spears,  and  bat- 
tle-axes were  given  a  fine 
setting  by  the  noble  archi- 
tecture of  the  Pavilion  de 
Rohan.  Within  the  court 
of  the  Louvre  was  drawn  up 
a  regiment  of  the  Garde  Municipale,  going  through 
the  morning  drill  ;  and  they  looked  quite  formidable 
with  their  evolutions  and  bayonet  charges.  But 
when  the  mob  of  Greek  and  Roman  warriors  flung 
themselves  bodily  upon  the  ranks  of  the  guard,  ousted 
the  officers,  and  assumed  command,  there  was  con- 
sternation. All  the  rigid  military  dignity  of  the  scene 
disappeared,  and  the  drill  was  turned  into  such  a 
farce  as  the  old  Louvre  had  never  seen  before.  The 
officers,  furious  at  first,  could  not  resist  the  spirit  of 

pure  fun  that  filled  the  mob,  and  took  their  revenge 

104 


FROM    THK    BALL 


BAL   DES   QUAT'Z'  ARTS 

by  kissing  the  models  and  making  them  dance.  The 
girls  had  already  done  their  share  of  the  conquering 
by  pinning  flowers  to  military  coats  and  coyly  putting 
pretty  lips  where  they  were  in  danger.  Even  the 
tall  electric-light  masts  in  the  court  were  scaled  by 
adventurous  students,  who  attached  brilliant  flags, 
banners,  and  crests  to  the  mast-heads  far  above  the 
crowd. 

\o  the  unspeakable  relief  of  the  officers,  the  march 
was  then  resumed.  The  Pont  du  Carrousel  was  the 
next  object  of  assault ;  here  was  performed  the  solemn 
ceremony  of  the  annual  sacrifice  of  the  Quat'z'  Arts 
to  the  river  Seine.  The  mighty  Bellona  was  the  sac- 
rifice. She  w^as  trundled  to  the  centre  of  the  bridge 
and  drawn  close  to  the  parapet,  while  the  disciples 
of  the  four  arts  gathered  about  with  uncovered  heads. 
The  first  bright  flashes  of  the  morning  sun,  sweeping 
over  the  towers  of  Notre- Dame,  tipped  Bellona's  up- 
raised sword  with  flame.  The  band  played  a  funeral 
march.  Prayers  were  said,  and  the  national  hymn 
was  sung ;  then  Bellona  was  sent  tottering  and 
crashing  over  the  parapet,  and  with  a  mighty  plunge 
she  sank  beneath  the  waters  of  the  Seine.  A  vast 
shout  rang  through  the  crisp  morning  air.  Far 
below,  poor  Bellona  rose  in  stately  despair,  and  then 
slowly  sank  forever. 

The  parade  formed  again  and  proceeded  to  the 
Beaux-Arts,  the  last  point  of  attack.  Up  the  narrow 
Rue  Bonaparte  went  singing  the  tired  procession  ; 
the  gates  of  the  Ecole  opened  to  admit  it,  cabs  and 
all,   and  the  doors  were  shut  again.     Then  in   the 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

historic  court-yard  of  the  government  school,  sur- 
rounded by  remnants  of  the  beautiful  architecture  of 
once  stately  chateaux  and  palaces,  and  encircled  by 
graceful  Corinthian  columns,  the  students  gave  a 
repetition  of  the  grand  ball  at  the  Moulin  Rouge. 
A  strange  and  incongruous  sight  it  was  in  the  bril- 
liant sunshine,  and  the  neighboring  windows  and 
balconies  were  packed  with  onlookers.  But  by  half- 
past  seven  every  trace  of  the  Bal  des  Quat'z'  Arts 
had  disappeared, — the  great  procession  had  melted 
away  to  the  haunts  of  Bohemia. 


C  /-\>  If  li 


BUTTERFLIES   OF   THE  CAFE 


LE  BOUL'   MICH' 


OF  course  the  proper  name  for  the  great  thor- 
oughfare of  the  Quartier  Latin  is  the  Boule- 
vard Saint-Michel,  but  the  boulevardiers  call 
it  the  Boul'  Mich',  just  as  the  students  call  the  Quatre 
Arts  the  Quat'z'  Arts,  because  it  is  easier  to  say. 

The  Boul'  Mich'  is  the  student's  highway  to  relax- 
ation. Mention  of  it  at  once  recalls  whirling  visions 
of  brilliant  cafes,  with  their  clattering  of  saucers  and 
glasses,  the  shouting  of  their  white-aproned  gargons, 
their  hordes  of  gay  and  wicked  damsels  dressed  in 
the  costliest  and  most  fashionable  gowns,  and  a  mul- 
titude of  riotous  students  howling  class  songs  and 
dancing  and  parading  to  the  different  cafes  as  only 
students  can.  This  is  the  head-quarters  of  the  Bo- 
hemians of  real  Bohemia,  whose  poets  haunt  the  dim 

and  quaint  cabarets  and  read  their  compositions  to 

109 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


SWEETMEAT  PEDLER 


admiring  friends  ;  of  flower-girls  who  offer  you  un 
petit  bouquet,  seulement  dix  centimes,  and  pin  it 
into  your  button-hole  before  you  can  refuse ;  of 
Turks  in  picturesque  native  costume 
selling  sweetmeats  ;  of  the  cane  man 
loaded  down  with  immense  sticks  ; 
of  the  pipe  man,  with  pipes  having 
stems  a  yard  long ;  of  beggars,  gut- 
ter-snipes, hot-chestnut  venders,  ped- 
lers,  singers,  actors,  students,  and  all 
manner  of  queer  characters. 

The  life  of  the  Boul'  Mich'  begins 
at  the  Pantheon,  where  repose  the 
remains  of  France's  great  men,  and 
ends  at  the  Seine,  where  the  gray 
Gothic  towers  and  the  gargoyles  of 
Notre-Dame  look  down  disdainfully  upon  the  giddy 
traffic  below.  The  eastern  side  of  the  Boul'  is  lined 
with  cafes,  cabarets,  and  brasseries. 

This  is  historic  ground,  for  where  now  is  the  old 
Hotel  Cluny  are  still  to  be  seen  the  ruins  of  Roman 
baths,  and  not  a  great  distance  hence  are  the  partly 
uncovered  ruins  of  a  Roman  arena,  with  its  tiers  of 
stone  seats  and  its  dens.  The  tomb  of  Cardinal 
Richelieu  is  in  the  beautiful  old  chapel  of  the  Sor- 
bonne,  within  sound  of  the  wickedest  cafe  in  Paris, 
the  Cafe  d'Harcourt.  In  the  immediate  vicinity  are 
to  be  found  the  quaint  jumbled  buildings  of  old 
Paris,  but  they  are  fast  disappearing.  And  the  Quar- 
tier  abounds  in  the  world's  greatest  schools  and  col- 
leges of  the  arts  and  sciences. 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

It  was  often  our  wont  on  Saturday  evenings  to 
saunter  along  the  Boul',  and  sometimes  to  visit  the 
cafes.  To  Bishop  particularly  it  was  always  a  reve- 
lation and  a  delight,  and  he  was  forever  studying 
and  sketching  the  types  that  he  found  there.  He 
was  intimately  acquainted  in  all  the  cafes  along  the 
line,  and  with  the  mysterious  rendezvous  in  the  dark 
and  narrow  side  streets. 

American  beverages  are  to  be  had  at  many  of  the 
cafes  on  the  Boul', — a  recent  and  very  successful  ex- 
periment. The  idea  has  captured  the  fancy  of  the 
Parisians,  so  that  "Bars  Americains,"  which  furnish 
cocktails  and  sours,  are  numerous  in  the  cafes. 
Imagine  a  Parisian  serenely  sucking  a  manhattan 
through  a  straw,  and  standing  up  at  that ! 

The  Boul'  Mich'  is  at  its  glory  on  Saturday  nights, 
for  the  students  have  done  their  week's  work,  and 
the  morrow  is  Sunday.  Nearly  everybody  goes  to 
the  Bal  Bullier.  This  is  separated  from  the  crowded 
Boul'  Mich'  by  several  squares  of  respectable  dwell- 
ing-houses and  shops,  and  a  dearth  of  cafes  prevails 
thereabout.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  Luxembourg  is 
a  long  stone  wall  brilliantly  bedecked  with  lamps  set 
in  clusters. — the  same  wall  against  which  Marechal 
Ney  was  shot  (a  striking  monument  across  the  way 
recalls  the  incident).  At  one  end  of  this  yellow  wall 
is  an  arched  entree,  resplendent  with  the  glow  of 
many  rows  of  electric  lights  and  lamps,  which  reveal 
the  colored  bas-reliefs  of  dancing  students  and  gri- 
settes  that  adorn  the  portal.  Near  by  stands  a  row 
of  voitures,  and  others  are  continually  dashing  up 

8  "3 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

and  depositing  Latin-Quarter  swells  with  hair  parted 
behind  and  combed  forward  toward  the  ears,  and 
dazzling  visions  of  the  demi-monde  in  lace,  silks,  and 
gauze.  And  there  is  a  constantly  arriving  stream  of 
students  and  gaudily  dressed  women  on  foot.  Big 
gardes  municipaux  stand  at  the  door  like  stone 
images  as  the  crowd  surges  past. 

To-night  is  one-franc  night.  An  accommodating 
lady  at  the  box-office  hands  us  each  a  broad  card, 
and  another,  au  vestiaire,  takes  our  coats  and  hats 
and  charges  us  fifty  centimes  for  the  honor.  De- 
scending the  broad  flight  of  softly  carpeted  red 
stairs,  a  brilliant,  tumultuous,  roaring  vision  bursts 
upon  us,  for  it  is  between  the  dances,  and  the  vis- 
itors are  laughing  and  talking  and  drinking.  The 
ball-room  opens  into  a  generous  garden  filled  with 
trees  and  shrubbery  ingeniously  devised  to  assure 
many  a  secluded  nook,  and  steaming  gargons  are 
flying  hither  and  thither  serving  foaming  bocks  and 
colored  syrups  to  nymphs  in  bicycle  bloomers,  long- 
haired students  under  tam  o'shanters,  and  the  swells 
peculiar  to  le  Quartier  Latin. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  Beeshop,  comment  vas  tu  ?" 
"  Tiens  !  le  voila,  Beeshop!"  "Ah,  mon  ange  !" 
and  other  affectionate  greetings  made  Bishop  start 
guiltily,  and  then  he  discovered  Helene  and  Mar- 
celle,  two  saucy  little  models  who  had  posed  at  the 
Ecole.  There  also  was  Fannie,  formerly  (before 
she  drifted  to  the  cafes)  our  blanchisseuse,  leaning 
heavily  upon  the  arm  of  son  amant,  who,  a  butcher- 
boy  during  the  day,  was  now  arrayed  in  a  cutaway 

114 


ENTRANCE  TO   BAL    BULLIER 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

coat  and  other  things  to  match,  including  a  red 
cravat  that  Fannie  herself  had  tied  ;  but  he  wore  no 
cuffs.  Many  other  acquaintances  presented  them- 
selves to  Bishop,  somewhat  to  his  embarrassment. 
One,  quite  a  swell  member  of  the  demi-monde,  for  a 
moment  deserted  her  infatuated  companion,  a  gigan- 
tic Martinique  negro,  gorgeously 
apparelled,  and  ran  up  to  tease 
Bishop  to  paint  her  portrait  a  I'ceil, 
and  also  to  engage  him  for  la  pro- 
chaine  valse. 

The  m  u  s  i  - 
cians  were  now 
playing  a  schot- 
tische,  but  large 
circles  would  be 
formed  here 
and  there  in  the 
hall,  where 
clever  exhibi- 
tions of  fancy 
dancing  would 
be  given  by 
students  and 
by  fashionably 
gowned  damsels  with  a  penchant  for  displaying  their 
lingerie  and  hosiery.  The  front  of  the  band-stand 
was  the  favorite  place  for  this.  Here  four  dashing 
young  women  were  raising  a  whirlwind  of  lingerie 
and  slippers,  while  the  crowd  applauded  and  tossed 
sous  at  their  feet. 

117 


FOUR    DASHING    YOUNG    WOMEN 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

Next  to  us  stood  a  fat,  cheery-faced  little  man, 
bearing  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  an  American 
tourist.  His  hands  were  in  his  pockets,  his  silk  hat 
was  tipped  back,  and  his  beaming  red  face  and 
bulging  eyes  showed  the  intensity  of  his  enjoyment. 
Without  the  slightest  warning  the  slippered  foot  of 
one  of  these  dancers  found  his  shining  tile  and  sent 
it  bounding  across  the  floor.  For  a  moment  the 
American  was  dazed  by  the  suddenness  and  un- 
earthly neatness  of  the  feat  ;  then  he  emitted  a 
whoop  of  wonder  and  admiration,  and  in  English 
exclaimed, — 

"  You  gol-darned  bunch  of  French  skirts — say, 
you're  all  right,  you  are,  Marie !  Bet  you  can't  do 
it  again  !" 

He  confided  to  Bishop  that  his  name  was  Pugson 
and  that  he  was  from  Cincinnati. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  joyously,  "Paris  is  the  top 
of  the  earth  !     You  artists  are  an  enviable  lot,  livino- 

over  here  all  the  time  and  painting Gad  !  look 

at  her  !"  and  he  was  pushing  his  way  through  the 
crowd  to  get  a  better  view  of  an  uncommonly  start- 
ling dancer,  who  was  at  the  moment  an  indeter- 
minate fluffy  bunch  of  skirts,  linen,  and  hosiery. 
Ah,  what  tales  he  will  tell  of  Paris  when  he  returns 
to  Cincinnati,  and  how  he  will  be  accused  of  exag- 
gerating ! 

The  four  girls  forming  the  centre  of  attraction 
were  now  doing  all  manner  of  astonishing  things 
possible  only  to  Parisian  feminine  anatomy.  In  an- 
other  circle    near   by   was   Johnson,   the    American 

ii8 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

architect,  stirring  enthusiastic  applause  as  he  hopped 
about,  Indian  fashion,  with  a  Httle  brunette  whose 
face  was  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  her  immense  hat, 
her  hair  en  bandeau,  a  la  de  Merode.  Could  this 
really  be  the  quiet  Johnson  of  the  Ecole,  who  but  a 
week  ago  had  been  showing  his  mother  and  charm- 
ing sister  over  Paris  ?  And  there,  too,  was  his  close 
friend,  Walden,  of  Michigan,  leading  a  heavy  blonde 
to  the  dance  !  There  were  others  whom  we  knew. 
The  little  Siamese  was  flirting  desperately  with  a 
vision  in  white  standing  near  his  friend,  a  Japanese, 
who,  in  turn,  was  listening  to  the  cooing  of  a  clinging 
bloomer  girl.  Even  Haidor,  the  Turk,  was  there, 
but  he  was  alone  in  the  gallery.  Many  sober  fel- 
lows whom  I  had  met  at  the  studio  were  there,  but 
they  were  sober  now  only  in  the  sense  that  they 
were  not  drunk.  And  there  were  law  students,  too, 
in  velveteen  caps  and  jackets,  and  students  in  the 
sciences,  and  students  in  music,  and  neglige  poets, 
litterateurs,  and  artists,  and  every  model  and  cocotte 
who  could  furnish  her  back  sufficiently  well  to  pass 
the  censorship  of  the  severe  critic  at  the  door.  If 
she  be  attractively  dressed,  she  may  enter  free  ;  if 
not,  she  may  not  enter  at  all. 

The  gayety  increased  as  the  hours  lengthened  ; 
the  dancing  was  livelier,  the  shouting  was  more 
vociferous,  skirts  swirled  more  freely,  and  thin  glasses 
fell  crashing  to  the  floor. 

It  was  pleasanter  out  in  the  cool  garden,  for  it 
was  dreadfully  hard  to  keep  from  dancing  inside. 
The  soft  gleam  of  the  colored  lamps  and  lanterns 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


r 


was  soothing,  and  the  music  was  softened  down  to 
an  echo.  The  broken  rays  of  the  lanterns  embedded 
in  the  foHage  laid  bright  patterns  on  the  showy  silks 
of  the  women,  and  the  gar^ons 
made  no  noise  as  they  flitted 
swiftly  through  the  mazes  of 
shrubbery. 

At   one   end   of    the    garden, 
surrounded      by      an      hilarious 
group,  were   four  wooden    rock- 
ing -  horses       worked 


on  springs.  Astride 
of  two  of  these  were 
an  army  officer  and 
his  companion,  a 
bloomer  girl,  who 
persistently  twisted 
her  ankles  round  her 
horse's  head.  The 
two  others  were  rid- 
den by  a  poet  and 
a  jauntily  attired  gri- 
sette.  The  four  were 
gleeful     as    chil- 


HE   HAS    COME   TO    PARIS    TO   STUDY    LAW 


as 
dren. 


A  flash-light  photographer  did  a  driving  trade  at 
a  franc  a  flash,  and  there  were  a  shooting-gallery,  a 
fortune-teller,  sou-in-the-slot  machines,  and  wooden 
figures  of  negroes  with  pads  on  their  other  ends,  by 
punching  which  we  might  see  how  hard  we  could  hit. 

We  are  back  in  the  ball-room  again, — it  is  hard  to 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

keep  out.  The  gayety  is  at  its  height,  the  Bal  BulHer  is 
in  full  swing.  The  tables  are  piled  high  with  saucers, 
and  the  gargons  are  bringing  more.  The  room  is 
warm  and  suffocating,  the  dancing  and  flirting  faster 
than  ever.  Now  and  then  a  line  is  formed  to  "  crack 
the  whip,"  and  woe  betide  anything  that  comes  in  its 
way ! 

Our  genial,  generous  new  friend  from  Cincinnati 
was  living  the  most  glorious  hour  of  his  life.  He 
had  not  been  satisfied  until  he  found  and  captured 
the  saucy  little  wretch  who  had  sent  his  hat  spinning 
across  the  room  ;  so  now  she  was  anchored  to  him, 
and  he  was  giving  exhibitions  of  American  grace  and 
agility  that  would  have  amazed  his  friends  at  home. 
For  obviously  he  was  a  person  of  consequence  there. 
When  he  saw  us  his  face  beamed  with  triumph,  and 
he  proudly  introduced  us  to  his  mignonette-scented 
conquest,  Mad-dem-mo-zel  Madeleine  (which  he  pro- 
nounced Madelyne),  "the  queen  of  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter. But  blamed  if  I  can  talk  the  blooming  lingo  !" 
he  exclaimed,  ruefully.  "You  translate  for  me, 
won't  you  ?"  he  appealed  to  Bishop,  and  Bishop 
complied.  In  paying  compliments  thus  transmitted 
to  Madeleine  he  displayed  an  adeptness  that  likely 
would  have  astounded  his  good  spouse,  who  at  that 
moment  was  slumbering  in  a  respectable  part  of 
Paris. 

But  the  big  black  Martinique  negroes, — they 
haunted  and  dominated  everything,  and  the  demi- 
monde fell  down  and  worshipped  them.  They  are 
students  of  law  and  medicine,  and  are  sent  hither 

125 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

from  the  French  colonies  by  the  government,  or 
come  on  their  private  means.  They  are  all  heavy 
swells,  as  only  negroes  can  be ;  their  well-fitted 
clothes  are  of  the  finest  and  most  showy  material ; 


HOW    NEGRO   STUDENTS    ARE   WELCOMED 

they  wear  shining  silk  hats,  white  waistcoats,  white 
"spats,"  patent  leathers,  and  very  light  kid  gloves, 
not  to  mention  a  load  of  massive  jewelry.  The 
girls  flutter  about  them  in  bevies,  like  doves  to  be 
ifed. 

At  exactly  a  quarter-past  midnight  the  band  played 
the  last  piece,  the  lights  began  to  go  out,  and  the 
Bal  Bullier  was  closed. 

Out  into  the  boulevard  surged  the  heated  crowd, 
shouting,  singing,  and  cutting  capers  as  they  headed 
for  the  Boul'  Mich',  there  to  continue  the  revelries  of 
which  the  Bal  Bullier  was  only  the  beginning,     "A 

126 


LE  BOUL'  MICH' 

la  Taverne  du  Pantheon!"  "Au  Cafe  Lorrain  !" 
"All  Cafe  d'Harcourt  !"  were  the  cries  that  rang 
through  the  streets,  mingled  with  the  singing  of  half 
a  thousand  people.  In  this  mob  we  again  encoun- 
tered our  American  acquaintance  with  his  prize,  and 
as  he  was  bent  on  seeing  all  that  he  could  of  Paris, 


■  .!^         ENCORE  DES   DEMI-MONDAINES 


y 


he  begged  us  to  see  him  through,   explaining  that 

money  was   no   object  with   him,    though  delicately 

adding    that  our  friends  must  make  so  many  calls 

upon  our  hospitality  as  to  prove  a  burden  at  times. 

He  had  only  two  days  more  in  Paris,  and  the  hours 

were  precious,  and  "we  will  do  things  up  in  style," 

he  declared  buoyantly.      He  did. 

Bishop's  arm  was  securely  held  by  a  little  lassie 

all  in  soft  creamy  silks.     She  spoke  Engleesh,  and 

demurely  asked  Bishop  if   "  we  will  go  to   ze  cafe 

127 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


ensemble,  n'est-ce-pas  ?"  and  Bishop  had  not  the 
heart  to  eject  her  from  the  party.  And  so  five  of  us 
went  skipping  along- with  the  rest,  Mr.  Pugson  swear- 
ing by  all  the  gods  that  Paris  was  the  top  of  the  earth  ! 
When  we  reached  the  lower  end  of  the  Jardin  du 
Luxembourg,  at  the  old  Palais,  the  bright  glow  of 
the  cafes,  with  their  warm  stained  windows  and  light- 
hearted  throngs,  stretched  away  before 
us.  Ah,  le  Boul'  Mich'  never  sleeps  ! 
There  are  still  the  laughing  grisettes, 
the  singing  and  dancing  students,  the 
kiosks  all  aglow ;  the  marchand  de 
marrons  is  roasting  his  chestnuts  over 
a  charcoal  brazier,  sending  out  a  savory 
aroma  ;  the  swarthy  Turk  is  offering  his 
wares  with  a  princely  grace  ;  the  flower- 
girls  flit  about  with  freshly  cut  carna- 
tions, violets,  and  Marechal  Niel  roses, 
'rf?r-^=--7  — "This  joli  bouquet  for  your  sweet- 

\3.    «^^  heart,"  they  plead  so   plaintively;  the 

pipe  man  plies  his  trade  ;  the  cane  man 
mobs  us,  and  the  sellers  of  the  last 
editions  of  the  papers  cry  their  wares. 
An  old  pedler  works  in  and  out  among  the  cafe 
tables  with  a  little  basket  of  olives,  deux  pour  un 
sou.  The  crawfish  seller,  with  his  little  red  ecrevisses 
neatly  arranged  on  a  platter ;  Italian  boys  in  white 
blouses  bearing  baskets  filled  with  plaster  casts  of 
"works  of  the  old  masters  ;"  gewgaw  pedlers, — they 
are  still  all  busily  at  work,  each  adding  his  mite  to 
the  din. 

128 


FROM    THE   COOK 
SHOP 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

The  cafes  are  packed,  both  inside  and  out,  but  the 
favorite  seats  are  those  on  the  sidewalk  under  the 
awninofs. 

We  halted  at  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt.  Here  the 
crowd  was  thickest,  the  sidewalk  a  solid  mass  of  hu- 
manity ;  and  the  noise  and  the  waiters  as  they  yelled 


A   CAF6   fight 

their  orders,  they  were  there.  And  des  femmes — 
how  many  !  The  Cafe  d'Harcourt  is  the  head-quar- 
ters of  these  wonderful  creations  of  clothes,  paint, 
wicked  eyes,  and  graceful  carriage.  We  worked 
our  way  into  the  interior.  Here  the  crowd  was 
almost  as  dense  as  without,  but  a  chance  offered  us 
a  vacant  table  ;  no  sooner  had  we  captured  it  than 
we  were  compelled   to  retreat,  because  of  a  battle 

131 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

that  two  excited  demoiselles  were  having  at  an  ad- 
joining table.  In  another  part  of  the  room  there 
was  singing  of  "  Les  sergents  sont  des  brave  gens," 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  a  petite  cocotte,  her 
hat  rakishly  pulled  down  over  her  eyes,  was  doing 
a  dance  very  gracefully,  her  white  legs  gleaming 
above  the  short  socks  that  she  wore,  and  a  shock- 
ingly high  kick  punctuating  the  performance  at  inter- 
vals. At  other  tables  were  seated  students  with 
their  friends  and  mistresses,  playing  dominoes  or 
recounting  their  petites  histoires.  One  table  drew 
much  attention  by  reason  of  a  contest  in  drinking 
between  two  seasoned  habitues,  one  a  Martinique 
negro  and  the  other  a  delicate  blond  poet.  The 
negro  won,  but  that  was  only  because  his  purse  was 
the  longer. 

Every  consommation  is  served  with  a  saucer,  upon 
which  is  marked  the  price  of  the  drink,  and  the  score 
is  thus  footed  a  la  fin  de  ces  joies.  There  are  some 
heavy  accounts  to  be  settled  with  the  gargons. 

"  Ah  !  voila  Beeshop  !"  "  Tiens  !  mon  vieux  !" 
"  Comment  vas-tu  ?"  clamored  a  half-dozen  of  Bishop's 
feminine  acquaintances,  as  they  surrounded  our  table, 
overwhelming  us  with  their  conflicting  perfumes. 
These  denizens  of  the  Boul'  have  an  easy  way  of 
making  acquaintances,  but  they  are  so  bright  and 
mischievous  withal  that  no  offence  can  be  taken  ; 
and  they  may  have  a  stack  of  saucers  to  be  paid  for. 
Among  the  many  cafe  frequenters  of  this  class  fully 
half  know  a  few  words  of  English,  Italian,  German, 
and  even   Russian,  and  are   so  quick  of  perception 

132 


p'tite  femme  a  faire'' 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

that  they  can  identify  a  foreigner  at  a  glance.  Con- 
sequently our  table  was  instantly  a  target,  principally 
on  account  of  Mr.  Pugson,  whose  nationality  ema- 
nated from  his  every  pore. 

"Ah,  milord,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  spik  Engleesh  a 
few.  Es  eet  notverra  a  beautiful  night?"  is  what  he 
got.      "You  are  si  charmant,  monsieur!"  protested 


•' PAVEZ-MOI    UN    BOCK,  MON    CHERI  ?' 


another,   stroking    Bishop's    Valasquez   beard ;    and 
then,    archly  and    coaxingly,    "  Qu'est-ce    que   vous 
m'offrez,  monsieur?     Payez-moi  un  bock?     Yes?" 
Mr.  Pugson  made  the  gargons  start.     He  ordered 


135 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

"everything  and  the  best  in  the  house"  (in  English) ; 
but  it  was  the  lordliness  of  his  manner  that  told,  as 
he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smoked  his  Londres 
and  eyed  Madeleine  with  intense  satisfaction.  In  the 
eyes  of  the  beholders  that  action  gave  him  the  un- 
mistakable stamp  of  an  American  millionaire.  "Tell 
you,  boys,"  he  puffed,  "  I'm  not  going  to  forget  Paree 
in  a  hurry."  And  Mademoiselle  Madeleine,  how  she 
revelled  !  Mr.  Pugson  bought  her  everything  that  the 
venders  had  to  sell,  besides,  for  himself,  a  wretched 
plaster  cast  of  a  dancing-girl  that  he  declared  was 
"dead  swell."  "I'll  take  it  home  and  startle  the 
natives,"  he  added;  but  he  didn't,  as  we  shall  see 
later.  Then  he  bought  three  big  canes  as  souvenirs 
for  friends,  besides  a  bicycle  lamp,  a  mammoth  pipe, 
and  other  things.  A  hungry-looking  sketch  artist 
who  presented  himself  was  engaged  on  the  spot  to 
execute  Mr.  Pugson's  portrait,  which  he  made  so 
flattering  as  to  receive  five  francs  instead  of  one, 
his  price. 

At  a  neighboring  table  occupied  by  a  group  of 
students  was  Bi-Bi-dans-la-Puree,  one  of  the  most 
famous  characters  of  the  Quartier  and  Montmartre. 
With  hilarious  laughter  the  students  were  having 
fun  with  Bi-Bi  by  pouring  the  contents  of  their  soup- 
plates  and  drinking-glasses  down  his  back  and  upon 
his  sparsely  covered  head ;  but  what  made  them 
laugh  more  was  Bi-Bi's  wonderful  skill  in  pulling 
grotesque  faces.  In  that  line  he  was  an  artist.  His 
cavernous  eyes  and  large,  loose  mouth  did  marvel- 
lous things,  from  the  ridiculous  to  the  terrible  ;  and 

136 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

he  could  literally  laugh  from  ear  to  ear.  Poor  Bi- 
Bi-dans-la-Puree !  He  had  been  a  constant  com- 
panion of  the  great  Verlaine,  but  was  that  no  more, 


HAVING    FUN   WITH    BI-BI-DANS-LA-PURfeE 


since  Verlaine  had  died  and  left  him  utterly  alone. 
You  may  see  him  any  day  wandering  aimlessly  about 
the  Quartier,  wholly  oblivious  to  the  world  about 
him,  and  dreaming  doubtless  of  the  great  dead  poet 
of  the  slums,  who  had  loved  him. 

Here  comes  old  Madame  Carrot,  a  weazened  little 
hunchback,  anywhere  between  sixty  and  a  hundred 
years  of  age.  She  is  nearly  blind,  and  her  tattered 
clothes  hang  in  strips  from  her  wreck  of  a  form.  A 
few  thin  strands  of  gray  hair  are  all  that  cover  her 
head, 

"  Bon  soir,  Mere  Carrot !  ma  petite  mignonne, 
viens  done  qu'on  t'embrasse !  Ou  sont  tes  ailes  ?"  and 
other  mocking  jests  greet  her  as  she  creeps  among 
the  tables.  But  Mere  Carrot  scorns  to  beg :  she 
would  earn  her  money.     Look !     With  a  shadowy 

137 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

remnant  of  grace  she  picks  up  the  hem  of  her  ragged 
skirt,  and  with  a  heart-breaking  smile  that  discloses 
her  toothless  gums,  she  skips  about  in  a  dance  that 
sends  her  audience  into  shrieks  of  laughter,  and  no 
end  of  sous  are  flung  at  her  feet.  She  will  sing,  too, 
and  caricature  herself,  and  make  pitiful  attempts  at 
high  kicking  and  anything  else  that  she  is  called 
upon  to  do  for  the  sous  that  the  students  throw  so 
recklessly.  There  are  those  who  say  that  she  is 
rich. 

In  the  rear  end  of  the  cafe  the  demoiselle  who  had 
anchored  herself  to  the  Martinique  negro  at  the  Bal 
Bullier  was  on  a  table  kicking  the  negro's  hat,  which 
he  held  at  arm's  length  while  he  stood  on  a  chair. 
"  Plus  haut !  plus  haut  encore  !"  she  cried  ;  but  each 
time,  as  he  kept  raising  it,  she  tipped  it  with  her 
dainty  slipper ;  and  then,  with  a  magnificent  bound, 
she  dislodged  with  her  toe  one  of  the  chandelier 
globes,  which  went  crashing  with  a  great  noise  to  the 
floor  ;  and  then  she  plunged  down  and  sought  refuge 
in  her  adorer's  arms. 

The  night's  excitement  has  reached  its  height  now. 
There  is  a  dizzy  whirl  of  skirts,  feathers,  "  plug"  hats, 
and  silken  stockings  ;  and  there  is  dancing  on  the 
tables,  with  a  smashing  of  glass,  while  lumps  of  sugar 
soaked  in  cognac  are  thrown  about.  A  single-file 
march  round  the  room  is  started,  each  dragging  a 
chair  and  all  singing,  "  Oh,  la  pauvre  fille,  elle  est 
malade  !"  Mr.  Pugson,  tightly  clutching  his  canes 
and  his  Dancing-Girl,  joins  the  procession,  his  shiny 
hat  reposing  on   the  pretty  head  of  Mademoiselle 

138 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

Madeleine.  But  his  heart  almost  breaks  with  regret 
because  he  cannot  speak  French. 

I  began  to  remonstrate  with  Bishop  for  his  own 
unseemly  levity,  but  the  gloved  hand  of  Mademoiselle 
Madeleine  was  laid  on  my  lips,  and  her  own  red  lips 
protested,  "Taisez-vous  done!  c'est  absolument  in- 
excusable de  nous  faire  des  sermons  en  ce  moment ! 
En  avant !"     And  we  went. 

It  was  two  o'clock,  and  the  cafes  were  closing, 
under  the  municipal  regulation  to  do  so  at  that 
hour,  and  the  Boul'  was  swarming  with  revellers 
turned  out  of  doors. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Racine  stands  a  small 
boulangerie,  where  some  of  the  revellers  were  beat- 
ing on  the  iron  shutters  and  crying,  "  Voila  du  bon 
fromage  au  lait !"  impatient  at  the  tardiness  of  the 
fat  baker  in  opening  his  shop  ;  for  the  odor  of  hot 
rolls  and  croissants  came  up  through  the  iron  gratings 
of  the  kitchen,  and  the  big  cans  of  fresh  milk  at  the 
door  gave  further  comforting  assurances. 

Lumbering  slowly  down  the  Boul'  were  ponderous 
carts  piled  high  with  vegetables,  on  their  way  to  the 
great  markets  of  Paris,  the  Halles  Centrales.  The 
drivers,  half  asleep  on  the  top,  were  greeted  with 
demands  for  transportation,  and  a  lively  bidding 
for  passengers  arose  among  them.  They  charged 
five  sous  a  head,  or  as  much  more  as  they  could 
get,  and  soon  the  carts  were  carrying  as  many  pas- 
sengers as  could  find  a  safe  perch  on  the  heaped 
vegetables. 

"  Aux  Halles  !  aux  Halles  !  nous  allons  aux  Halles  ! 

»39 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

Oh,  la,  la,  comme  ils  sont  bons,  les  choux  et  les  poti- 
rons !"  were  the  cries  as  the  carts  lumbered  on 
toward  the  markets. 

Mr.  Pugson  had  positively  refused  to  accept  our 
resignation,  and  stoutly  reminded  us  of  our  promise 
to  see  him  through.  So  our  party  arranged  with  a 
masculine  woman  in  a  man's  coat  on  payment  of  a 
franc  a  head,  and  we  clambered  upon  her  neatly 
piled  load  of  carrots.  Mr.  Pugson,  becoming  impa- 
tient at  the  slow  progress  of  the  big  Normandy  horses, 
began  to  pelt  them  with  carrots.  The  market-woman 
protested  vigorously  at  this  waste  of  her  property, 
and  told  Mr.  Pugson  that  she  would  charge  him  two 
sous  apiece  for  each  subsequent  carrot.  He  seized 
upon  the  bargain  with  true  American  readiness,  and 
then  flung  carrots  to  his  heart's  content,  the  driver 
meanwhile  keeping  count  in  a  loud  and  menacing 
voice.  It  was  a  new  source  of  fun  for  the  irrepressi- 
ble and  endlessly  jovial  American. 

Along  the  now  quiet  boulevard  the  carts  trundled 
in  a  string.  All  at  once  there  burst  from  them  all  an 
eruption  of  song  and  laughter,  which  brought  out 
numerous  gendarmes  from  the  shadows.  But  when 
they  saw  the  crowd  they  said  nothing  but  "Les 
etudiants,"  and  retreated  to  the  shadows. 

As  we  were  crossing  the  Pont-au-Change,  oppo- 
site the  Place  du  Chatelet,  with  its  graceful  column 
touched  by  the  shimmering  lights  of  the  Seine,  and 
dominated  by  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame,  Mr.  Pug- 
son, in  trying  to  hurl  two  carrots  at  once,  incautiously 

released  his  hold  upon  the  Dancing-Girl,  which  in- 

140 


LE   BOUL'  MICH' 

continently  rolled  off  the  vegetables  and  was  shat- 
tered into  a  thousand  fragments  on  the  pavement  of 
the  bridge — along  with  Mr.  Pugson's  heart.  After 
a  moment  of  silent  misery  he  started  to  throw  the 
whole  load  of  carrots  into  the  river,  but  he  quickly 
regained  command  of  himself  For  the  first  time, 
however,  his  wonderful  spirits  were  dampened,  and 
he  was  as  moody  and  cross  as  a  child,  refusing  to  be 
comforted  even  by  Madeleine's  cooing  voice. 

The  number  of  carts  that  we  now  encountered 
converging  from  many  quarters  warned  us  that  we 
were  very  near  the  markets.  Then  rose  the  subdued 
noise  that  night-workers  make.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  end  of  the  laden  carts.  The  great  Halles  then 
came  into  view,  with  their  cold  glare  of  electric 
lights,  and  thousands  of  people  moving  about  with 
baskets  upon  their  backs,  unloading  the  vegetable 
carts  and  piling  the  contents  along  the  streets.  The 
thoroughfares  were  literally  walled  and  fortressed 
with  carrots,  cabbages,  pumpkins,  and  the  like,  piled 
in  neat  rows  as  high  as  our  heads  for  square  after 
square.  Is  it  possible  for  Paris  to  consume  all  of 
this  in  a  day  ? 

Every  few  yards  were  fat  women  seated  before 
steaming  cans  of  hot  potage  and  cafe  noir,  with  rows 
of  generous  white  bowls,  which  they  would  fill  for  a 
sou. 

Not  alone  were  the  market  workers  here,  for  it 
seemed  as  though  the  Boul'  Mich'  had  merely  taken 
an  adjournment  after  the  law  had  closed  its  portals 
and  turned  it  out  of  doors.    The  workers  were  silent 

141 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

and  busy,  but  largely  interspersed  among  them  were 
the  demi-mondaines  and  the  singing  and  dancing 
students  of  the  Quartier,  all  as  full  of  life  and 
deviltry  as  ever.  It  was  with  these  tireless  revel- 
lers that  the  soup-  and  coffee-women  did  their  most 
thriving  business,  for  fun  brings  a  good  appetite, 
and  the  soup  and  coffee  were  good  ;  but  better  still 
was  this  unconventional,  lawless,  defiant  way  of 
taking  them.  Mr.  Pugson's  spirits  regained  their 
vivacity  under  the  spell,  and  he  was  so  enthusiastic 
that  he  wanted  to  buy  out  one  of  the  pleasant-faced 
fat  women ;  we  had  to  drag  him  bodily  away  to  avert 
the  catastrophe. 

In  the  side  streets  leading  away  from  the  markets 
are  cafes  and  restaurants  almost  without  number, 
and  they  are  open  toute  la  nuit,  to  accommodate 
the  market  people,  having  a  special  permit  to  do  so  ; 
but  as  they  are  open  to  all,  the  revellers  from  all 
parts  of  Paris  assemble  there  after  they  have  been 
turned  out  of  the  boulevard  cafes  at  two  o'clock.  It 
is  not  an  uncommon  thing  early  of  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing to  see  crowds  of  merry-makers  from  a  bal 
masque  finishing  the  night  here,  all  in  costume, 
dancing  and  playing  ring-around-a-rosy  among  the 
stacks  of  vegetables  and  the  unheeding  market 
people.  Indeed,  it  is  quite  a  common  thing  to 
end  one's  night's  frivolity  at  the  Halles  and  their 
cafes,  and  take  the  first  'buses  home  in  the  early 
morning. 

The  contingent  from  the  Boul'  Mich',  after  assist- 
ing the  market  people  to  unload,  and  indulging  in 

142 


SLEEPY    ALI.-NIGHTERS    AT   THE   CAFt    BARRFTTE 


LE  BOUL'  MICH' 

all  sorts  of  pranks,  invaded  the  elite  cafes,  among 
them  the  Cafe  Barrette,  Au  Veau  Qui  Tete,  Au  Chien 
Qui  Fume,  and  Le  Caveau  du  Cercle.  At  this  last- 
named  place,  singing  and  recitations  with  music 
were  in  order,  a  small  platform  at  one  end  of  the 
room  being  reserved  for  the  piano  and  the  per- 
formers. Part  of  the  audience  were  in  masquerade 
costume,  having  come  from  a  ball  at  Montmartre,  and 
they  lustily  joined  the  choruses.  Prices  are  gilt- 
edged  here, — a  franc  a  drink,  and  not  less  than  ten 
sous  to  the  gargon. 

The  contrast  between  the  fluffy  and  silk-gowned 
demi-mondaines  and  the  dirty,  roughly  clad  market 
people  was  very  striking  at  the  Cafe  Barrette.  There 
the  women  sit  in  graceful  poses,  or  saunter  about 
and  give  evidence  of  their  style,  silk  gowns,  India 
laces,  and  handsome  furs,  greeting  each  new-comer 
with  pleas  for  a  sandwich  or  a  bock ;  they  are 
always  hungry  and  thirsty,  but  they  get  a  commis- 
sion on  all  sales  that  they  promote.  A  small  string 
orchestra  gave  lively  music,  and  took  up  collections 
between  performances.  The  array  of  gilt-framed 
mirrors  heightened  the  brilliancy  of  the  place,  already 
sufficiently  aglow  with  many  electric  lights.  The 
Cafe  Barrette  is  the  last  stand  of  the  gaudy  women 
of  the  boulevards.  With  the  first  gray  gleam  of 
dawn  they  pass  with  the  night  to  which  they  be- 
long. 

It  was  with  sincere  feeling  that  Mr.  Pugson  bade 
us  good-by  at  five  o'clock  that  morning  as  he  jumped 
into  a  cab  to  join  his  good  spouse  at  the  Hotel  Con- 

lo  145 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

tinental ;  but  he  bore  triumphantly  with  him  some 
sketches  of  the  showy  women  at  the  Cafe  Barrette, 
which  Bishop  had  made. 

As  for  Madeleine,  so  tremedously  liberal  had  she 
found  Mr.  Pugson  that  her  protestations  of  affection 
for  him  were  voluble  and  earnest.  She  pressed  her 
card  upon  him  and  made  him  swear  that  he  would 
find  her  again.  After  we  had  bidden  her  good-night, 
Mr.  Pugson  drew  the  card  from  his  pocket,  and 
thoughtfully  remarked,  as  he  tore  it  to  pieces, — 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  prudent  to  carry  such  things 
m  your  pocket." 


LONG-HAIRED   STUDENTS    OF   THE    BOUL     MICH' 


-wmimMnHiwiiiifipj 


MAISON    DA  RELAY 


BOHEMIAN    CAFES 


VERY  often,  instead  of  having  dinner  at  the 
studio,  we  saunter  over  to  the  Maison  Dar- 
blay,  passing  the  wall  of  the  dismal  Cimetiere 
du  Montparnasse  on  the  way.  The  Maison  Dar- 
blay  is  in  the  little  Rue  de  la  Gaiete,  which,  though 
only  a  block  in  length,  is  undoubtedly  the  liveliest 
thoroughfare  in  the  Quartier,  That  is  because  it 
serves  as  a  funnel  between  the  Avenue  du  Maine 
and  five  streets  that  converge  into  it  at  the  upper 
end.  Particularly  in  the  early  evening  the  little 
street  is  crowded  with  people  returning  from  their 
work.  All  sorts  of  boutiques  are  packed  into  this 
minute  thoroughfare, — jewelry-shops,  pork-shops, 
kitchens  (where  they  cook  what  you  bring  while  you 
wait  on  the  sidewalk),  theatres,  cafes  chantants, 
fried-potato  stalls,  snail  merchants,  moving  vegeta- 
ble- and  fruit-markets,  and  everything  else. 

147 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


In  the  middle  of  the  block,  on  the  western  side, 
between  a  millinery-shop  and  a  butcher-shop,  stands 
the  Maison  Darblay,  famous  for  its  beans  and  its 
patrons.  A  modest  white  front,  curtained  windows, 
and  a  row  of  milk-cans  give  little  hint  of  the  charms 
of  the  interior.  Upon  entering  we  encounter  the 
vast  M,  Darblay  seated  behind  a  tiny  counter,  upon 

which  are  heaped  a 
pile  of  freshly  ironed 
napkins,  parcels  of 
chocolate,  a  big  dish 
of  apple-sauce,  rows 
of  bottles  containing 
bitters  that  work  mira- 
cles with  ailing  appe- 
tites, and  the  tip-box. 
Reflecting  M.  Dar- 
blay's  beamy  back  and 
the  clock  on  the  oppo- 
site    wall     (which     is 

LA   CAISSE 

always  fifteen  minutes 
fast)  hangs  a  long  mirror  resplendent  in  heavy  gilt 
frame ;  it  is  the  pride  of  the  establishment,  and 
affords  comfort  to  the  actresses  when  they  adjust 
their  hats  and  veils  upon  leaving. 

M.  Darblay  is  manager  of  the  establishment,  and 
when  it  is  reflected  that  he  weighs  two  hundred  and 
sixty  pounds,  it  may  be  imagined  what  accurate  ad- 
justments he  has  to  make  in  fitting  himself  behind 
the  small  counter.  When  a  boarder  finishes  his 
meal  he  goes  to  M.  Darblay  and  tells  him  what  he 


BOHEMIAN   CAFES 

has  had,  including  napkin  and  bread,  and  M.  Darblay 
scores  it  all  down  on  a  slate  with  chalk  and  foots  it 
up.  After  the  bill  is  paid,  the  tip-box  is  supposed 
by  a  current  fiction  to  receive  two  sous  for  Marie 
and  Augustine,  the  buxom  Breton  maidens  who 
serve  the  tables  ;  but  so  rarely  does  the  fiction  ma- 
terialize that,  when  the  ratde  of  coins  is  heard  in  the 
box,  the  boarders  all  look  up  wonderingly  to  see  the 
possible  millionaire  that  has  appeared  among  them, 
and  Marie  and  Au- 
gustine shout  at 
the  top  of  their 
voices,  "Merci 
bien,  monsieur !" 

At  the  opposite 
end  of  the  room,  in 
full  view,  is  the  cui- 
sine, with  its  big 
range  and  ruddy 
fires.  Here  Ma- 
dame Darblay 
reigns  queen,  her 
genial,  motherly  red 
face  and  bright  eyes 
beaming  a  welcome 
to  all.  She  is  from 
Lausanne,  on  Lake 
Geneva,  Switzerland,  and  the  independent  blood  of 
her  race  rarely  fails  its  offices  when  M.  Darblay 
incautiously  seeks  to  interfere  with  her  duties  and 

prerogatives,  for  he  retreats  under  an  appalling  vol- 

149 


MADAME    DARBLAY,  FAMOUS    FOR    HER    BEANS 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

ley  of  French  from  his  otherwise  genial  spouse  ;  on 
such  occasions  he  seeks  his  own  corner  as  rapidly  as 
he  can  manage  his  bulk  to  that  purpose.  She  is  a 
famous  cook.  The  memory  of  her  poulets  rotis  and 
juicy  gigots  will  last  forever.  But  greatest  of  all  are 
her  haricots  blancs,  cooked  au  beurre  ;  it  is  at  the 
shrine  of  her  beans  that  her  devoted  followers  worship. 

And  her  wonderful  wisdom  !  She  knows  intuitively 
if  you  are  out  of  sorts  or  have  an  uncertain  appetite, 
and  without  a  hint  she  will  prepare  a  delicacy  that  no 
epicure  could  resist.  She  knows  every  little  whim 
and  peculiarity  of  her  boarders,  and  caters  to  them 
accordingly.  The  steaks  and  chops  are  bought  at 
the  shop  next  door  just  when  they  are  ordered,  and 
are  always  fresh. 

There  are  eight  marble-top  tables  lining  the  two 
walls,  and  each  table  is  held  sacred  to  its  proper 
occupants,  and  likewise  are  the  numbered  hooks 
and  napkins.  An  invasion  of  these  preserves  is  a 
breech  of  etiquette  intolerable  in  Bohemia. 

Even  the  white  cat  is  an  essential  part  of  the 
establishment,  for  it  purringly  welcomes  the  patrons 
and  chases  out  stray  dogs. 

Situated  as  it  is,  in  a  group  of  three  theatres  and 
several  cafes  chantants,  it  is  the  rendezvous  of  the 
actors  and  actresses  of  the  neighborhood.  They  hold 
the  three  tables  but  one  from  the  kitchen,  on  one 
side,  and  they  are  a  jolly  crowd,  the  actresses  par- 
ticularly. They  are  a  part  of  the  Quartier  and  echo 
its  spirit.     Although  full  of  mischief  and   fun,   the 

actresses  would  never  be  suspected  of  singing  the 

150 


BOHEMIAN    CAFES 


naughty  songs  that  so  dehght  the  gallery  gods  and 
so  often  wring  a  murmur  of  protest  from  the  pit. 
There  are  ten  who  dine  here,  but  from  their  inces- 
sant chatter  and  laughter  you  would  think  them 
twenty.  On  Friday  evenings,  when  the 
songs  and  plays  are  changed,  they  re- 
hearse their  pieces  at  dinner. 

Bishop  is  openly  fond  of  Mademoi- 
selle Brunerye,  a  sparkling  little  bru- 
nette singer,  who  scolds  him  tragically 


for  drawing  horrible  carica- 
tures of  her  when  he  sits  be- 
fore the  footlights  to  hear 
her  sing.  But  it  is  always 
she  that  begins  the  trouble 
at  the  theatre.  If  Bishop  is 
there,  she  is  sure  to  see  him 
and  to  interpolate  something 
in    her    song    about    "mon 

amant  Americain."  and  sing  it  pointedly  at  him,  to 
the  amusement  of  the  audience  and  his  great  dis- 
comfiture ;  and  so  he  retorts  with  the  caricatures. 

153 


MADEMOISELLE  BRUNERYE.  OF 
THE  THEATRE  GAIETfe,  MONT- 
PARNASSE 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

Upon  entering  the  restaurant  the  actresses  remove 
their  hats  and  wraps  and  make  themselves  perfectly 
at  home.  They  are  the  Hfe  of  Darblay's  ;  we  couldn't 
possibly  spare  them. 

One  of  the  actors  is  a  great  swell, — M.  Fontaine, 
leading  man  at  the  Theatre  du  Montparnasse,  op- 
posite. His  salary  is  a  hundred  francs 
a  week  ;  this  makes  the  smaller  actors 
look  up  to  him,  and  enables  him  to 
wear  a  very  long  coat,  besides  gloves, 
patent-leather  shoes,  and  a  shiny  top- 
hat.  He  occupies  the  place  of  honor, 
and  Marie  smiles  when  she  serves 
him,  and  gives  him  a  good  measure 
of  wine.  He  rewards  this  attention 
by  depositing  two  sous  in  the  tip-box 
every  Friday  night.  Then  there  are 
M.  Marius,  M.  Zecca,  and  M.  Dufau, 
who  make  people  scream  with  laughter 
at  the  Gaiete,  and  M.  Coppee,  the 
heavy  villain  of  the  terrible  eyes  in 
"  Les  Deux  Gosses,"  and  Mademoi- 
THE  LEADING  MAN  selle  Walzy,  whose  dark  eyes  sparkle 
AT  THE  GAiETfe  ^j^j^  miscWef  as  she  peeps  over  her 
glass,  and  Mademoiselle  Minion,  who  kicks  shock- 
ingly high  to  accentuate  her  songs,  and  eight  other 
actresses  just  as  saucy  and  pretty. 

The  students  of  the  Quartier  practically  take 
charge  of  the  theatres  on  Saturday  nights,  and  as 
they  are  very  free  with  their  expressions  of  approval 
or  disapproval,  the  faces  of  the  stage-people  wear 

154 


BOHEMIAN   CAFES 

an  anxious  look  at  the  restaurant  on  that  evening. 
The  students  will  throw  the  whole  theatre  into  an 
uproar  with  hisses  that  drive  an  actor  off  the  stage, 
or  applause,  recalls,  and  the  throwing  of  two-sous 
bouquets  and  kisses  to  an  actress  who  has  made  a 
hit. 

Promptly  at  six-forty-five  every  night  the  venera- 
ble M.  Corneau  enters  Darblay's,  bringing  a  copy 
of  Le  Journal.  He  is  extremely  methodical,  so  that 
any  interruption  of  his  established  routine  upsets 
him  badly.  One  evening  he  found  a  stranger  in  his 
seat,  occupying  the  identical  chair  that  had  been 
sacred  to  his  use  every  evening  for  six  years.  M. 
Corneau  was  so  astonished  that  he  hung  his  hat  on 
the  wrong  hook,  stepped  on  the  cat's  tail,  sulked  in 
a  corner,  and  refused  to  eat  until  his  seat  had  been 
vacated,  and  then  he  looked  as  though  he  wished  it 
could  be  fumigated.  He  has  a  very  simple  meal. 
One  evening  he  invited  me — a  rare  distinction — to 
his  room,  which  was  in  the  top  floor  of  one  of  those 
quaint  old  buildings  in  the  Rue  du  Moulin  de  Beurre. 
It  could  then  be  seen  what  a  devoted  scientist  and 
student  he  was.  His  room  was  packed  with  books, 
chemicals,  mineral  specimens,  and  scientific  instru- 
ments. He  was  very  genial,  and  brewed  excellent 
tea  over  an  alcohol-stove  of  his  own  manufacture. 
Twenty  years  ago  he  was  a  professor  at  the  Ecole 
des  Mines,  where  he  had  served  many  years  ;  but 
he  had  now  grown  too  old  for  that,  and  was  living 
his  quiet,  studious,  laborious  life  on  a  meagre 
pension. 

155 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

At  one  table  sit  a  sculptor,  an  artist,  and  a  blind 
musician  and  his  wife.  The  sculptor  is  slender,  deli- 
cate, and  nervous,  and  is  continually  rolling  and 
smoking  cigarettes.     His  blond  hair  falls  in  ringlets 


THE  ARTIST,  THE  SCULPTOR,  THE   BLIND   MUSICIAN,   HIS   WIFE 


over  his  collar,  and  he  looks  more  the  poet  than  the 
sculptor,  for  he  is  dreamy  and  distrait,  and  seems  to 
be  looking  within  himself  rather  than  upon  the  world 
about  him.  Augustine  serves  him  with  an  absinthe 
Pernod  au  sucre,  which  he  slowly  sips  while  he 
smokes  several  cigarettes  before  he  is  ready  for  his 
dinner. 

The  artist  is  his  opposite, — a  big,  bluff,  hearty  fel- 
low, loud  of  voice  and  full  of  life.     And  he  is  suc- 

156 


BOHEMIAN   CAFES 

cessful,  for  he  has  received  a  medal  and  several  hon- 
orable mentions  at  the  Salon  des  Champs-Elysees, 
and  has   a   fine  twilight  effect  in  the  Luxembourg 


THE    POET   AND    HIS    MISTRESS 


Gallery.  After  dinner  he  and  M.  Darblay  play 
piquet  for  the  coffee,  and  M.  Darblay  is  generally 
loser. 

The  blind  musician  is  a  kindly  old  man  with  a 
benevolent  face  and  a  jovial  spirit.  He  is  the  head 
professor  of  music  at  the  Institution  des  Aveugles, 
on  the  Boulevard  des  Invalides.  His  wife  is  very 
attentive  to  him,  taking  his  hat  and  cane,  tucking  his 
napkin  under  his  chin,  placing  the  dishes  where  he 
knows  how  to  find  them,  and  reading  the  papers  to 

157 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

him.  He  knows  where  everybody  sits,  and  he  ad- 
dresses each  by  name,  and  passes  many  brisk  sallies 
about  the  room. 

One  poet  is  vivacious,  not  at  all  like  the  dreamy 
species  to  which  he  belongs.  True,  he  wears  long 
hair  and  a  Quartier  Latin  "plug,"  but  his  eyes  are 
not  vague,  and  he  is  immensely  fond  of  Madame 
Darblay's  beans,  of  which  he  has  been  known  to 
stow  away  five  platefuls  at  a  meal.  Often  he  brings 
in  a  copy  of  Gil  Bias,  containing  a  poem  by  himself 
in  the  middle  of  the  page  and  with  illustrations  by 
Steinlen. 

A  strange,  solitary  figure  used  to  sit  in  one  cor- 
ner, speaking  to  no  one,  and  never  ordering  more 
than  a  bowl  of  chocolate  and  two  sous  of  bread.  It 
was  known  merely  that  he  was  an  Hungarian  and  an 
artist,  and  from  his  patched  and  frayed  clothes  and 
meagre  fare  it  was  surmised  that  he  was  poor.  But 
he  had  a  wonderful  face.  Want  was  plainly  stamped 
upon  it,  but  behind  it  shone  a  determination  and  a 
hope  that  nothing  could  repress.  There  was  not  a 
soul  among  the  boarders  but  that  would  have  been 
glad  to  assist  in  easing  whatever  burden  sat  upon 
him,  and  no  doubt  it  was  his  suspicion  of  that  fact 
and  his  dread  of  its  manifestation  that  made  him 
hold  absolutely  aloof  Madame  Darblay  once  or 
twice  made  efforts  to  get  nearer  to  him,  but  he 
gently  and  firmly  repulsed  her.  He  was  a  pitiable 
figure,  but  his  pride  was  invincible,  and  with  eyes 
looking  straight  forward,  he  held  up  his  head  and 
walked  like  a  king.     He  came  and  werit  as  a  shadow. 

158 


BOHEMIAN    CAFES 

None  knew  where  he  had  a  room.  There  were  many 
stories  and  conjectures  about  him,  but  he  wrapped 
his  mantle  of  mystery  and  soHtude  about  him  and 
was  wholly  inaccessible.  It  was  clear  to  see  that  he 
lived  in  another  world, — a  world  of  hopes,  filled  with 
bright  images  of  peace  and  renown.  After  a  time 
his  seat  became  vacant,  and  I  shall  presently  tell 
how  it  happened. 

These  will  suffice  as  types  of  the  Maison  Darblay, 
though  I  might  mention  old  M.  Decamp,  eighty-four 
years  of  age,  and  as  hearty  and  jovial  a  man  as  one 
would  care  to  see.  In  his  younger  days  he  had  been 
an  actor,  having  had  a  fame  during  the  Empire  of 
Napoleon  III.  And  there  were  a  professor  ot  lan- 
guages, who  gave  lessons  at  fifteen  sous  an  hour,  a 
journalist  of  the  Figaro,  and  two  pretty  milliner  girls 
from  the  shop  next  door. 

The  great  event  at  the  Maison  Darblay  came  not 
long  ago,  when  M.  Darblay' s  two  charming  daugh- 
ters had  a  double  wedding,  each  with  a  comfortable 
dot,  for  M.  Darblay  had  grown  quite  rich  out  of  his 
restaurant,  owning  several  new  houses.  The  girls 
were  married  twice, — once  at  the  Mairie  on  the  Rue 
Gassendi,  and  again  at  the  Eglise  St.  Pierre,  on  the 
Avenue  du  Maine.  Then  came  the  great  wedding- 
dinner  at  the  Maison  Darblay,  to  which  all  the 
boarders  were  invited.  The  tables  were  all  con- 
nected, so  as  to  make  two  long  rows.  The  bridal- 
party  were  seated  at  the  end  next  the  kitchen,  and 
the  front  door  was  locked  to  exclude  strangers.  M. 
Darblay  was  elegant  in  a  new  dress  suit  and  white 

159 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


shirt,  but  his  tailor,  in  trying  to  give  him  a  trim 
figure,  made  the  situation  embarrassing,  as  M.  Dar- 
blay's  girth  steadily  increased 
during  the  progress  of  the 
banquet.  He  made  a  very  fine 
speech,  which  was  uproariously 
cheered.  Madame  Darblay 
was  remarkably  handsome  in  a 
red  satin  gown,  and  bore  so 
distinguished  an  air,  and  looked 
so  transformed  from  her  usual 
kitchen  appearance,  that  we 
could  only  marvel  and  admire. 
Then  came  the  kissing  of  the 
brides,  a  duty  that  was  per- 
formed most  heartily.  Ma- 
cuTTiNG  ^2.me  Darblay  was  very  happy 
and  proud,  and  her  dinner  was 
a  triumph  to  have  lived  for. 

Bishop  sat  opposite  the  wicked  Mademoiselle 
Brunerye,  and  he  and  she  made  violent  love,  and 
behaved  with  conspicuous  lack  of  dignity.  M.  Fon- 
taine, the  orreat,  had  one  of  the  chic  milliners  for 
partner.  Old  M.  Decamp  told  some  racy  stories 
of  the  old  regime.  When  the  coffee  and  liqueurs 
came  on,  the  big  artist  brought  out  a  guitar  and  the 
poet  a  mandolin,  and  we  had  music.  Then  the  poet 
read  a  poem  that  he  had  written  for  the  occasion. 
The  actresses  sang  their  sprightliest  songs.  Made- 
moiselle Brunerye  sang  "  ^a  fait  toujours  plaisir"  to 
Bishop.     M.  Fontaine  gave  in  a  dramatic  manner  a 

i6o 


MONSIEUR  DARBLAY 

BREAD  IN  SOU  LENGTHS 


BOHEMIAN   CAFES 

scene  from  "  Les  Deux  Gosses,"  the  heavy  villain 
assisting,  the  cook's  aprons  and  towels  serving  to 
make  the  costumes.     Bishop  sang  "  Down  on  the 


THE    HEAVY   VILLAIN 


Farm."  In  short,  it  was  a  splendid  evening  in  Bohe- 
mia, of  a  kind  that  Bohemians  enjoy  and  know  how 
to  make  the  most  of. 

There  was  one  silent  guest,  the  strange  young 
Hungarian  artist.  He  ate  with  a  ravenous  appetite, 
openly  and  unashamed.  After  he  had  had  his  fill 
(and  Madame  Darblay  saw  to  it  that  he  found  his 

II  i6i 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

plate  always  replenished),  he  smiled  occasionally  at 
the  bright  sallies  of  the  other  guests,  but  for  the 
most  part  he  sat  constrained,  and  would  speak  only 
when  addressed, — he  protested  that  his  French  was 
too  imperfect.  It  was  so  evident  that  he  wished  to 
escape  notice  entirely  that  no  serious  effort  was 
made  to  draw  him  out. 

That  was  a  hard  winter.  A  few  weeks  after  the 
wedding  the  Hungarian's  visits  to  the  Maison  Dar- 
blay  suddenly  ceased.  The  haunted  look  had  been 
deepening  in  his  eyes,  his  gaunt  cheeks  had  grown 
thinner,  and  he  looked  like  a  hunted  man.  After  his 
disappearance  the  gendarmes  came  to  the  restaurant 
to  make  inquiries  about  him.  Bishop  and  I  were 
present.  They  wanted  to  know  if  the  young  man 
had  any  friends  there.  We  told  them  that  we  would 
be  his  friends. 

"Then  you  will  take  charge  of  his  body?"  they 
asked. 

We  followed  them  to  the  Rue  Perceval,  where  they 

turned  us  over  to  the  concierge  of  an  old  building. 

She  was  very  glad  we  had  come,  as  the  lad  seemed 

not  to  have  had  a  friend  in  the  world.     She  led  us 

up  to  the  sixth  floor,  and  then  pointed  to  a  ladder 

leading  up  to  the  roof.     We  ascended  it,  and  found 

a  box  built  on  the  roof.     It  gave  a  splendid  view  of 

Paris.    The  door  of  the  box  was  closed.    We  opened 

it,  and  the  young  artist  lay  before  us  dead.     There 

were  two  articles  of  furniture  in   the  room.     One 

was  the  bare  mattress  on  the  floor,  upon  which  he 

lay,  and  the  other  was  an  old  dresser,  from  which 

162 


BOHEMIAN   CAFES 

some  of  the  drawers  were  missing.  The  young  man 
lay  drawn  up,  fully  dressed,  his  coat  collar  turned  up 
about  his  ears.  Thus  he  had  fallen  asleep,  and  thus 
hunger  and  cold  had  slain  him  as  he  slept.  There 
was  one  thing  else  in  the  room,  all  besides,  including 
the  stove  and  the  bed-covering,  having  gone  for  the 
purchase  of  painting  material.  It  was  an  unfinished 
oil-painting  of  the  Crucifixion.  Had  he  lived  to  finish 
it,  I  am  sure  it  would  have  made  him  famous,  if  for 
nothing  else  than  the  wonderful  expression  of  agony 
in  the  Saviour's  face,  an  agony  infinitely  worse  than 
the  physical  pain  of  the  crucifixion  could  have  pro- 
duced. 

There  was  still  one  thing  more, — a  white  rat  that 
was  hunting  industriously  for  food,  nibbling  desic- 
cated cheese-rinds  that  it  found  on  the  shelves 
against  the  wall.  It  had  been  the  artist's  one  friend 
and  companion  in  life. 

And  all  that,  too,  is  a  part  of  life  in  Bohemian 
Paris. 

On  the  Rue  Marie,  not  far  from  the  Gare  Mont- 
parnasse,  is  the  "Club,"  a  small  and  artistically 
dirty  wine-shop  and  restaurant,  patronized  by  a  se- 
lect crowd  of  musketeers  of  the  brush.  The  warm, 
dark  tones  of  the  anciently  papered  walls  are  hidden 
beneath  a  cloud  of  oil  sketches,  charcoal  drawings, 
and  caricatures  of  everything  and  everybody  that  the 
fancies  of  the  Bohemians  could  devise.  Madame 
Annaie  is  mistress  of  the  establishment,  and  her 
cook,  M.  Annaie,  wears  his  cap  rakishly  on  one  side 

163 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

and  attends  to  his  business  ;  and  he  makes  very 
good  potages  and  rotis,  considering  the  small  prices 
that  are  charged.  Yet  even  the  prices,  though  the 
main  attraction,  are  paid  with  difficulty  by  a  majority 
of  the  habitues,  who  sometimes  fall  months  in  arrears. 
Madame  Annaie  keeps  a  big  book  of  accounts. 

Of  the  members  of  the  club,  four  are  Americans, 
two  Spaniards,  one  an  Italian,  one  a  Welshman, 
one  a  Pole,  one  a  Turk,  one  a  Swiss,  and  the  rest 
French, — just  fifteen  in  all,  and  all  sculptors  and 
painters  except  one  of  the  Americans,  who  is  corre- 
spondent of  a  New  York  paper.  At  seven  o'clock 
every  evening  the  roll  is  called  by  the  Pole,  who  acts 
as  president,  secretary,  and  treasurer  of  the  club. 
A  fine  of  two  sous  is  imposed  for  every  absence  ; 
this  goes  to  the  "smoker"  fund.  Joanskouie,  the 
multiple  officer,  has  not  many  burdensome  duties, 
but  even  these  few  are  a  severe  tax  upon  his  highly 
nervous  temperament.  Besides  collecting  the  fines 
he  must  gather  up  also  the  dues,  which  are  a  franc 
a  month.  All  the  members  are  black-listed,  in- 
cluding the  president  himself,  and  the  names  of  the 
delinquents  are  posted  on  the  wall. 

The  marble-top  tables  are  black  with  pencil 
sketches  done  at  the  expense  of  Giles,  the  Welsh- 
man, who  is  the  butt  of  the  club.  He  is  a  very  tall 
and  amazingly  lean  Welshman,  with  a  bewhiskered 
face,  a  hooked  nose,  and  a  frightful  accent  when  he 
speaks  either  English  or  French.  He  is  an  animal 
sculptor,  but  leaves  his  art  carefully  alone.     He  is 

very  clever  at  drawing  horses,  dogs,  and  funny  cows 

164 


BOHEMIAN   CAFES 

all  over  the  walls  ;  but  he  is  so  droll  and  stupid,  so 
incredibly  stupid,  that  "Giles"  is  the  byword  of  the 
club.  Every  month  he  receives  a  remittance  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  francs,  and  immediately  starts  out 
to  get  the  full  worth  of  it  in  the  kinds  of  enjoyment 
that  he  finds  on  the  Boul'  Mich',  where  regularly 
once  a  month  he  is  a  great  favorite  with  the  feminine 
habitues  of  the  cafes.  When  his  funds  run  low,  he 
lies  perdu  till  mid-day  ;  then  he  appears  at  Madame 
Annaie's,  heavy-eyed  and  stupid,  staying  until  mid- 
night. Sometimes  he  varies  this  routine  by  visiting 
his  friends  at  their  studios,  where  he  is  made  to  pose 
in  ridiculous  attitudes. 

The  "smoker"  is  held  on  the  last  Saturday  night 
of  each  month,  and  all  the  members  are  present. 
Long  clay  pipes  are  provided,  and  a  big  bowl  of  steam- 
ing punch,  highly  seasoned,  comes  from  Madame  An- 
naie's kitchen.  Mutually  laudatory  speeches  and 
toasts,  playing  musical  instruments,  and  singing 
songs  are  in  order.  The  Spaniard,  with  castanets, 
skilfully  executes  the  fandango  on  a  table.  Bishop 
does  the  danse  du  ventre.  Joncierge  gives  marvel- 
lous imitations  of  Sarah  Bernhardt  and  other  celeb- 
rities, including  Giles,  whose  drawl  and  stupidity 
he  makes  irresistibly  funny.  Nor  do  Gerome,  Bou- 
guereau,  and  Benjamin  Constant  escape  his  mimicry. 
Haidor,  the  Turk,  drawls  a  Turkish  song  all  out  of 
tune,  and  is  rapturously  encored.  The  Swiss  and 
the  Italian  render  a  terrific  duo  from  "Aida,"  and 
the  Spaniards  sing  the  "  Bullfighters'  Song"  su- 
perbly.    Sketches  are  dashed  off  continually.    They 

165 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

are  so  clever  that  it  is  a  pity  Madame  Annaie  has  to 
wipe  them  from  the  tables. 

On  Thanksgiving-day  the  Americans  gave  the 
club  a  Thanksgiving  dinner.  It  was  a  great  mys- 
tery and  novelty  to  the  other  members,  but  they  en- 
joyed it  hugely.  The  turkeys  were  found  without 
much  trouble,  but  the  whole  city  had  to  be  searched 
for  cranberries.  At  last  they  were  found  in  a  small 
grocery-shop  in  the  American  quarter,  on  the  Ave- 
nue Wagram.  Bishop  superintended  the  cooking, 
M.  Annaie  serving  as  first  assistant.  How  M. 
Annaie  stared  when  he  beheld  the  queer  Ameri- 
ican  mixtures  that  Bishop  was  concocting  !  "  Mon 
Dieu !  Not  sugar  with  meat !"  he  cried,  aghast, 
seeing  Bishop  serve  the  turkey  with  cranberry 
sauce.  A  dozen  delicious  pumpkin-pies  that  formed 
part  of  the  menu  staggered  the  old  cook.  The  Italian 
cooked  a  pot  of  macaroni  with  mushroom  sauce,  and 
it  was  superb. 

"The  Hole  in  the  Wall"  eminently  deserves  its 
name.  It  is  on  the  Boulevard  du  Montparnasse, 
within  two  blocks  of  the  Bal  BuUier.  A  small  iron 
sign  projecting  over  the  door  depicts  two  students 
looking  down  at  the  passers-by  over  bowls  of  coffee, 
rolls  also  being  shown.  It  was  painted  by  an  Aus- 
trian student  in  payment  of  a  month's  board. 

The  Hole  is  a  tiny  place,  just  sufficiently  large  for 
its  two  tables  and  eight  stools,  fat  Madame  Morel, 
the  proprietress,  and  a  miniature  zinc  bar  filled  with 
absinthe  and  cognac  bottles  and  drinking  glasses. 

1 66 


BOHEMIAN   CAFES 

The  ceiling  is  so  low  that  you  must  bend  should  you 
be  very  tall,  for  overhead  is  the  sleeping-room  of 
Madame  Morel  and  her  niece  ;  it  is  reached  by  a 
small  spiral  stair.     A  narrow  slit  in  the  floor  against 


■'  THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL"  AND  MADAME  MOREL 

the  wall,  where  the  napkin-box  hangs,  leads  down  to 
the  dark  little  kitchen.  It  is  a  tight  squeeze  for 
Madame  Morel  to  serve  her  customers,  but  she  has 
infinite  patience  and  geniality,  and  discharges  her 
numerous  duties  and  bears  her  hardships  with  unfail- 
ing good-nature.  It  is  no  easy  task  to  cook  a  half- 
dozen  orders  at  once,  wait  on  the  tables,  run  out  to 
the  butcher-shop  for  a  chop  or  a  steak,  and  take  in 
the  cash.  But  she  does  all  this,  and  much  more, 
having  no  assistant.  The  old  concierge  next  door, 
Madame  Mariolde,  runs  in  to  help  her  occasionally, 
when  she  can  spare  a  moment  from  her  own  multifa- 
rious duties.     Madame  Morel's  toil-worn  hands  are 

167 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

not  bien  propre,  but  she  has  a  kind  heart.  For 
seven  years  she  has  Hved  in  this  Httle  Hole,  and 
during  that  time  has  never  been  farther  away  than 
to  the  grocery-shop  on  the  opposite  corner. 

Her  niece  leaves  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
to  sew  all  day  on  the  other  side  of  town,  returning 
at  eight  at  night,  tired  and  listless,  but  always  with 
a  half-sad  smile.  So  we  see  little  of  her.  Many 
nights  I  have  seen  her  come  in  drenched  and  cold, 
her  faded  straw  hat  limp  and  askew,  and  her  dark 
hair  clinging  to  her  wet  face.  For  she  has  walked 
in  the  rain  all  the  way  from  the  Avenue  de  1' Opera, 
unable  to  afford  omnibus  fare.  She  usually  earns 
from  two  to  two  and  half  francs  a  day,  sewing 
twelve  hours. 

The  most  interesting  of  the  frequenters  of  the 
Hole  is  a  Slav  from  Trieste,  on  the  Adriatic.  He  is 
a  genius  in  his  way,  and  full  of  energy  and  busi- 
ness sense.  His  vocation  is  that  of  a  "lightning- 
sketch  artist,"  performing  at  the  theatres.  He  has 
travelled  all  over  America  and  Europe,  and  is  thor- 
oughly hardened  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  When- 
ever he  runs  out  of  money  he  goes  up  to  the  Rue 
de  la  Gaiete  and  gives  exhibitions  for  a  week  or  two 
at  one  of  the  theatres  there,  receiving  from  fifty  to 
sixty  francs  a  week.  The  students  all  go  to  see  him, 
and  make  such  a  noise  and  throw  so  many  bouquets 
(which  he  returns  for  the  next  night)  that  the  theat- 
rical managers,  thinking  he  is  a  great  drawing-card, 
generally  raise  his  salary  as  an  inducement  to  make 
him  prolong  his   stay  when  he  threatens  to  leave. 

i68 


BOHEMIAN   CAFES 

But  he  is  too  thoroughly  a  Bohemian  to  remain  long 
in  a  place.  Last  week  he  suddenly  was  taken  with 
a  desire  to  visit  Vienna.  Soon  after  he  had  gone 
four  pretty  Parisiennes  called  and  wanted  to  know 
what  had  become  of  their  amant. 

D ,  another  of  the  habitues  of  the  Hole,  is  a 

German  musical  student.  Strangers  would  likely 
think  him  mentally  deranged,  so  odd  is  his  conduct. 
He  has  two  other  peculiarities, — ex- 
treme sensitiveness  and  indefatigable 
industry.  He  brings  his  shabby 
violin-case  every  evening,  takes  out 
his  violin  after  dinner,  and  at  once 
becomes  wholly  absorbed  in  his  prac- 
tice. If  he  would  play  something 
more  sprightly  and  pleasing  the  other 
habitues  of  the  Hole  would  not  ob- 
ject ;  but  he  insists  on  practising  the 
dreariest,  heaviest,  and  most  wearing 
exercises,  the  most  difficult  etudes, 
and  the  finest  compositions  of  the 
masters.  All  this  is  more  than  the 
others  can  bear  with  patience  always  ; 
so  they  wound  his  sensibilities  by 
throwing  bread  and  napkin-rings  at      "^"^  musical  stu- 

1    .  ^T^,  1  .  11-1  DENT  AT  "  THE  HOLE 

hmi.      I  hen  he  retires  to  the  kitchen,   j^^  ^^^  wall" 

where,  sitting  on  the  cooler  end  of  the 

range,  he  practises  diligently  under  Madame  Morel's 

benevolent  protection.     This  is  all  because  he  has 

never  found  a  concierge  willing  to  permit  him  to 

study  in  his  room,  so  tireless  is  his  industry.     If  I 

169 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

do  not  mistake,  this  strange  young  man  will  be  heard 
from  some  day. 

Then  there  is  W ,  a  student  in  sculpture,  with 

exceptionally  fine  talent.  He  had  been  an  American 
cowboy,  and  no  trooper  could  swear  more  eloquently. 
He  has  been  making  headway,  for  the  Salon  has 
given  him  honorable  mention  for  a  strong  bronze 
group  of  fighting  tigers.  His  social  specialty  is 
poker-playing,  and  he  has  brought  the  entire  Hole 
under  the  spell  of  that  magic  game. 

Herr  Prell,  from  Munich,  takes  delight  in  torturing 
the  other  habitues  with  accounts  of  dissections,  as  he 
is  a  medical  student  at  the  Academie  de  Medecine. 
The  Swede,  who  drinks  fourteen  absinthes  a  day, 
throws  stools  at  Herr  Prell,  and  tries  in  other  ways 
to  make  him  fight ;  but  Herr  Prell  only  laughs,  and 
gives  another  turn  of  the  dissection-screw. 

The  glee  club  is  one  of  the  features  of  the  Hole. 
It  sings  every  night,  but  its  supreme  effort  comes 
when  one  of  the  patrons  of  the  Hole  departs  for 
home.  On  such  occasions  the  departing  comrade 
has  to  stand  the  dinner  for  all,  after  which,  with  its 
speeches  and  toasts,  he  is  escorted  to  the  railway 
station  with  great  eclat,  and  given  a  hearty  farewell, 
the  glee  club  singing  the  parting  song  at  the  station. 
Bishop  is  leading  tenor  of  the  glee  club. 


LE   CABARET   DU    SOLEIL  D'OR 


IT  is  only  the  name  of  the  Cabaret  of  the  Golden 
Sun  that  suggests  the  glorious  luminary  of  day. 
And  yet  it  is  really  brilliant  in  its 
own  queer  way,  though  that  brilliancy 
shines  when  all  else  in  Paris  is  dark 
and  dead, — at  night,  and  in  the  latest 
hours  of  the  night  at  that. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  Golden 
Sun  began  one  foggy  night  in  a  cold 
November,  under  the  guidance  of 
Bishop. 

Lured  by  the  fascinations  of  noc- 
turnal life  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  and 
by  its  opportunities  for  the  study  of 
life  in  its  strangest   phases,   Bishop 
had  become  an  habitual  nighthawk, 
leaving  the  studio  nearly  every 
evening  about  ten  o'clock,  after 
he  had  read  a  few  hours  from 
treasured  books  gleaned  from 
the    stalls   along   the   river,  to 
prowl     about    with    a    sketch- 
book,  in   quest   of  queer  char- 
acters and  queer  places,  where  strange  lives  were 

lived  in  the  dark  half  of  the  day.     His  knowledge  of 

171 


IN    HEAVY    BOHEMIA 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

obscure  retreats  and  their  peculiar  habitues  seemed 
unHmited.  And  what  an  infinite  study  they  offer ! 
The  tourist,  "doing"  Bohemian  Paris  as  he  would 
the  famous  art  galleries,  or  Notre-Dame,  or  the 
Madeleine,  or  the  cafes  on  the  boulevards,  may, 
under  the  guidance  of  a  wise  and  discerning  stu- 
dent, visit  one  after  another  of  these  out-of-the-way 
resorts  where  the  endless  tragedy  of  human  life  is 
working  out  its  mysteries  ;  he  may  see  that  one 
place  is  dirtier  or  noisier  than  another,  that  the  men 
and  women  are  better  dressed  and  livelier  here  than 
there,  that  the  crowd  is  bigger,  or  the  lights  brighter  ; 
but  he  cannot  see,  except  in  their  meaningless  outer 
aspects,  those  subtle  differences  which  constitute  the 
heart  of  the  matter.  In  distance  it  is  not  far  from 
the  Moulin  Rouge  to  the  Cabaret  du  Soleil  d'Or, 
but  in  descending  from  the  dazzling  brilliancy  and 
frothy  abandon  of  the  Red  Mill  to  the  smoke  and 
grime  of  the  Golden  Sun,  we  drop  from  the  summit 
of  the  Tour  Eiffel  to  the  rat-holes  under  the  bridges 
of  the  Seine;  and  yet  it  is  in  such  as  the  Cabaret 
of  the  Golden  Sun  that  the  true  student  finds  the 
deeper,  the  more  lastingly  charming,  the  strangely 
saddening  spell  that  lends  to  the  wonderful  Quartier 
Latin  its  distinctive  character  and  everlasting  fasci- 
nation. 

Though  Bishop  spoke  to  me  very  little  of  his  mid- 
night adventures,  I  being  very  busy  with  my  own 
work,  I  began  to  have  grave  apprehensions  on  the 
score  of  his  tastes  in  that  direction  ;  for  during  the 

afternoons  ridiculous-looking,  long-haired,  but  gentle- 

172 


LE   CABARET   DU  SOLEIL   D'OR 

mannered  persons  in  shabby  attire,  well-seasoned 
with  the  aroma  of  absinthe  and  cigarettes,  would 
favor  our  studio  with  a  call,  undoubtedly  at  Bishop's 
invitation.  They  brought  with  them  black  portfolios 
or  rolls  of  paper  tied  with  black  string,  containing 
verses, — their  masterpieces,  which  were  to  startle 
Paris,  or  new  songs,  which,  God  favoring,  were  to  be 
sung  at  La  Scala  or  the  Ambassadeurs,  and  thus 
bring  them  immortal  fame  and  put  abundant  fat 
upon  their  lean  ribs  !  Ah,  the  deathless  hope  that 
makes  hunger  a  welcome  companion  here  ! 

Bishop  would  cleverly  entertain  these  aspiring 
geniuses  with  shop  talk  concerning  literature  and 
music,  and  he  had  a  charming  way  of  dwelling  upon 
the  finish  and  subtlety  of  their  work  and  comparing 
it  with  that  of  the  masters.  It  usually  ended  with 
their  posing  for  him  in  different  attitudes  of  his  sug- 
gesting. Why  waste  money  on  professional  models  ? 
As  Bishop's  acquaintances  became  more  numerous 
among  this  class,  we  finally  set  aside  Tuesday  after- 
noons for  their  reception.  Then  they  would  come 
in  generous  numbers  and  enjoy  themselves  unre- 
servedly with  our  cognac  and  biscuits.  But  ah,  the 
rare  pleasures  of  those  afternoons, — as  much  for  the 
good  it  did  us  to  see  their  thin  blood  warmed  with 
brandy  and  food  as  for  their  delightful  entertainment 
of  us  and  one  another. 

The  studio  was  warm  and  cheerful  on  the  night 
when  Bishop  invited  me  to  accompany  him  out.  I 
had  been  at  work,  and  presently,  when  I  had  finished, 
I  flung  myself  on  the  divan  for  a  rest  and  a  smoke, 

173 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

and  then  became  aware  of  Bishop's  presence.  He 
was  comfortably  ensconced  in  the  steamer-chair, 
propped  up  with  pillows. 

"Aren't  you  going  out  to-night?"  I  inquired. 

"Why,  yes.  Let's  see  the  time.  A  little  after 
eleven.  That's  good.  You  are  finished,  aren't  you  ? 
Now,  if  you  want  a  little  recreation  and  wish  to  see 
one  of  the  queerest  places  in  Paris,  come  with  me." 

I  looked  out  the  window.  A  cold,  dreary  night  it 
was.  The  chimney-pots  were  dimmed  by  the  thick 
mist,  and  the  street  lamps  shone  murkily  far  below. 
It  was  a  saddening,  soaking,  dripping  night,  still,  mel- 
ancholy, and  depressing, — the  kind  of  night  that  lends 
a  strange  zest  to  in-door  enjoyment,  as  though  it  were 
a  duty  to  keep  the  mist  and  the  dreariness  out  of  the 
house  and  the  heart. 

But  the  studio  had  worn  me  out,  and  I  was  eager 
to  escape  from  its  pleasant  coziness.  And  this  was 
a  Saturday  night,  which  means  something,  even  in 
Paris.  To-morrow  there  would  be  rest.  So  I  cheer- 
fully assented. 

We  donned  our  heaviest  top-coats  and  mufflers, 
crammed  the  stove  full  of  coal,  and  then  sallied  out 
into  the  dripping  fog. 

Oh,  but  it  was  cold  and  dismal  in  the  streets  !  The 
mist  was  no  longer  the  obscuring,  suggestive,  myste- 
rious factor  that  it  had  been  when  seen  from  the 
window,  but  was  now  a  tangible  and  formidable  thing, 
with  a  manifest  purpose.  It  struck  through  our  wraps 
as  though  they  had  been  cheesecloth.  It  had  swept 
the  streets  clear,  for  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  except 

174 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

a  couple  of  sergents  de  ville,  all  hooded  in  capes,  and 
a  cab  that  came  rattling  through  the  murk  with  horses 
asteam.  Occasionally  a  flux  of  warm  light  from  some 
cafe  would  melt  a  tunnel  througrh  the  monotonous 
opaque  haze,  but  the  empty  chairs  and  tables  upon 
the  sidewalks  facing  the  cafes  offered  no  invitation. 


THE    LADY    IN    BLACK 


In  front  of  one  of  these  cafes,  in  a  sheltered  cor- 
ner made  by  a  glass  screen,  sat  a  solitary  young 
woman,  dressed  stylishly  in  black,  the  light  catching 
one  of  her  dainty  slippers  perched  coquettishly  upon 

175 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

a  foot-rest.  A  large  black  hat,  tilted  wickedly  down 
over  her  face,  cast  her  eyes  in  deep  shadow  and  lent 
her  that  air  of  alluring  mystery  which  the  women  of 
her  class  know  so  well  how  to  cultivate.  Her  neck 
and  chin  were  buried  deep  in  the  collar  of  her  seal- 
skin cape.  A  gleam  of  limp  white  gauze  at  her  throat 
lent  a  pleasing  relief  to  the  monotone  of  her  attire. 
Upon  the  table  in  front  of  her  stood  an  empty  glass 
and  two  saucers.  As  we  passed  she  peered  at  us 
from  beneath  her  big  hat,  and  smiled  coquettishly, 
revealing  glistening  white  teeth.  The  atmosphere  of 
loneliness  and  desolation  that  encompassed  her  gave 
a  singularly  pathetic  character  to  her  vigil.  Thus 
she  sat,  a  picture  for  an  artist,  a  text  for  a  moralist, 
pretty,  dainty,  abandoned.  It  happened  not  to  be 
her  fortune  that  her  loneHness  should  be  relieved  by 
us.  ,  .  .  But  other  men  might  be  coming  afterwards. 
.  .  .  All  this  at  a  glance  through  the  cold  November 
fog. 

As  we  proceeded  up  the  Boul'  Mich'  the  cafes 
grew  more  numerous  and  passers-by  more  frequent, 
but  all  these  were  silent  and  in  a  hurry,  prodded  on 
by  the  nipping  cold  fangs  of  the  night.  Among  the 
tables  outside  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt  crouched  and 
prowled  an  old  man,  bundled  in  ill-fitting  rags, 
searching  for  remnants  of  cigars  and  cigarettes  on 
the  sanded  sidewalk.  From  his  glittering  eyes,  full 
of  suspicion,  he  turned  an  angry  glance  upon  us  as 
we  paused  a  moment  to  observe  him,  and  growled, — 

"  Allons,  tu  n'  peux  done  pas  laisser  un  pauv' 
malheureux?" 

176 


LE   CABARET    DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 


Bishop    tossed    him    a    sou,    which    he    greedily 
snatched  without  a  word  of  thanks. 

At  the  corner,  under  the  gas-lamps,  stood  shiver- 
ing newspaper  venders  trying  to  sell  their  few  re- 
maining copies  of  la  derniere  edition 
de  la  presse.     Buyers  were  scarce. 

We  had  now  reached  the  Place 
St.-Michel  and  the  left  bank  of  the 
river.  We  turned 
to  the  right,  fol- 
lowing the  river 
wall  toward  No- 
tre-Dame,  whose 
towers  were 
not  discernible 
through  the  fog. 
Here  there  was  an 
unbounded  wilder- 
ness of  desolation 
and  solitude.  The 
black  Seine  flowed  silently  past 
dark  masses  that  were  resolved 
into  big  canal-boats,  with  their  . 
sickly  green  lights  reflected  in  the 
writhing  ink  of  the  river.  Notre-Dame  now  pushed 
its  massive  bulk  through  the  fog,  but  its  towers 
were  lost  in  the  sky.  Near  by  a  few  dim  lights 
shone  forth  through  the  slatted  windows  of  the 
Morgue.  But  its  lights  never  go  out.  And  how 
significantly  close  to  the  river  it  stands  !  Peering 
under  the  arches  of  the  bridges,  we  found  some  of 

177 


A   HUNTER   OF  SCRAPS 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

the  social  dregs  that  sleep  there  with  the  rats.  It 
was  not  difficult  to  imagine  the  pretty  girl  in  black 
whom  we  had  passed  coming  at  last  through  dissipa- 
tion and  wrinkles  and  broken  health  to  take  refuge 
with  the  rats  under  the  bridges,  and  it  is  a  short  step 
thence  to  the  black  waters  of  the  river  ;  and  that 
the  scheme  of  the  tragedy  might  be  perfect  in  all  its 
parts,  adjustments,  and  relations,  behold  the  Morgue 
so  near,  with  its  lights  that  never  go  out,  and  boatmen 
so  skilled  in  dragging  the  river !  And  the  old  man 
who  was  gathering  the  refuse  and  waste  of  smokers, 
it  was  not  impossible  that  he  should  find  himself 
taking  this  route  when  his  joints  had  grown  stiffer, 
though  it  would  more  likely  end  under  the  bridges. 

The  streets  are  very  narrow  and  crooked  around 
Notre-Dame,  and  their  emanations  are  as  various  as 
the  capacity  of  the  human  nose  for  evil  odors.  The 
lamps,  stuck  into  the  walls  of  the  houses,  only  make 
the  terrors  of  such  a  night  more  formidable  ;  for 
while  one  may  feel  a  certain  security  in  absolute 
darkness,  the  shadows  to  which  the  lamps  lend  life 
have  a  baffling  elusiveness  and  weirdness.  and  a 
habit  of  movement  that  makes  one  instinctively 
dodge.  But  that  is  all  the  trick  of  the  wind.  How- 
ever that  may  be,  it  is  wonderful  how  much  more 
vividly  one  remembers  on  such  a  night  the  stories  of 
the  murders,  suicides,  and  other  crimes  that  lend  a 
particular  grewsomeness  to  the  vicinity  of  the  Morgue 
and  Notre-Dame. 

We  again  turned  to  the  right,  into  a  narrow,  dirty 
street, — the    Rue  du   Haut-Pave, — whose  windings 

178 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

brought  us  into  a  similar  street, — the  Rue  Galande. 
Bishop  halted  in  front  of  a  low  arched  door-way, 
which  blazed  sombrely  in  its  coat  of  blood-red  paint. 
A  twisted  gas-lamp,  demoralized  and  askew,  de- 
pended overhead,  and  upon  the  glass  enclosing  it 
was  painted,  with  artistic  flourishes, — 

•*Au  SoLEiL  d'Or." 

This  was  the  cabaret  of  the  Golden  Sun, — all  un- 
conscious of  the  mockery  of  its  name,  another  of 
those  whimsical  disjointings  in  which  the  shadowy 
side  of  Paris  is  so  prolific.  From  the  interior  of  the 
luminary  came  faintly  the  notes  of  a  song,  with  piano 
accompaniment. 

The  archway  opened  into  a  small  court  paved 
with  ill-fitted  flint  blocks.  At  the  farther  end  of  it 
another  gas-lamp  flickered  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of 
stairs  leading  underground.  As  we  approached  the 
steps  a  woman  sprang  from  the  shadow,  and  with  a 
cry,  half  of  fear  and  half  of  anger,  fled  to  the  street. 
At  that  moment  memories  of  the  cosiness  of  our 
studio  became  doubly  enticing, — one  cannot  always 
approach  unfamiliar  underground  Paris  with  perfect 
courage.  But  Bishop's  coolness  was  reassuring. 
He  had  already  descended  the  steps,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  but  to  follow. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  were  half-glass  doors  cur- 
tained with  cheap  red  cloth.  A  warm,  thick,  suffo- 
cating gust  of  air,  heavy  with  the  fumes  of  beer, 
wine,   and  tobacco,   assailed  our  cold  faces  as  we 

pushed  open  the  doors  and  entered  the  room. 

179 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

For  a  moment  it  was  difficult  to  see  clearly,  so 
dense  was  the  smoke.  It  was  packed  against  the 
ceiling  like  a  bank  of  fog,  diminishing  in  density 
downward,  and  shot  through  with  long  banner-like 
streamers  of  smoke  freshly  emitted. 

The  human  atmosphere  of  the  place  could  not  be 
caught  at  once,  A  stranger  would  not  have  known 
for  the  moment  whether  he  was  with  thieves  or  artists. 
But  very  soon  its  distinctive  spirit  made  its  presence 
and  character  manifest.  The  room — which  was  not 
a  large  one — was  well  filled  with  an  assortment  of 
those  queer  and  interesting  people  some  of  whom 
Bishop  had  entertained  at  the  studio,  only  here  their 
characteristics  were  more  pronounced,  for  they  were 
in  their  natural  element,  depressed  and  hampered  by 
no  constraints  except  of  their  own  devising.  A  great 
many  were  women,  although  it  could  be  seen  at  a 
glance  that  they  were  not  of  the  nymphs  who  flitted 
among  the  glittering  cafes,  gowned  in  delicate  laces 
and  sheeny  sculptured  silks,  the  essence  of  migno- 
nette pervading  their  environment.  No  ;  these  were 
different. 

Here  one  finds,  not  the  student  life  of  Paris,  but 
its  most  unconventional  Bohemian  life.  Here,  in 
this  underground  rendezvous,  a  dirty  old  hole  about 
twenty  feet  below  the  street  level,  gather  nightly  the 
happy-go-lucky  poets,  musicians,  and  singers  for 
whom  the  great  busy  world  has  no  use,  and  who,  in 
their  unrelaxing  poverty,  live  in  the  tobacco  clouds 
of  their  own  construction,  caring  nothing  for  social 
canons,  obeyers  of   the  civil  law   because  of   their 

1 80 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

scorn  of  meanness,  injustice,  and  crime,  suffering  un- 
ceasingly for  the  poorest  comforts  of  life,  ambitious 
without  energy,  hopeful  without  effort,  cheerful  under 
the  direst  pressure  of  need,  kindly,  simple,  proud, 
and  pitiful. 

All  were  seated  at  little  round  tables,  as  are  the 
habitues  of  the  cafes,  and  their  attention  was  directed 
upon  a  slim  young  fellow  with  curling  yellow  hair 
and  a  faint  moustache,  who  was  singing,  leaning  mean- 
while upon  a  piano  that  stood  on  a  low  platform  in 
one  corner  of  the  room.  Their  attention  was  respect- 
ful, delicate,  sympathetic,  and,  as  might  be  supposed, 
brought  out  the  best  in  the  lad.  It  was  evident  that 
he  had  not  long  been  a  member  of  the  sacred  circle. 
His  voice  was  a  smooth,  velvety  tenor,  and  under 
proper  instruction  might  have  been  useful  to  its  pos- 
sessor as  a  means  of  earning  a  livelihood.  But  it 
was  clear  that  he  had  already  fallen  under  the  spell 
of  the  associations  to  which  accident  or  his  inclina- 
tion had  brought  him  ;  and  this  meant  that  hence- 
forth he  would  live  in  this  strange  no-world  of  dreams, 
hopes,  sufferings,  and  idleness,  and  that  likely  he 
would  in  time  come  to  gather  cigar-stumps  on  the 
sanded  pavement  of  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt,  and  after 
that  sleep  with  the  rats  under  the  bridges  of  the 
Seine.  At  this  moment,  however,  he  lived  in  the 
clouds  ;  he  breathed  and  glowed  with  the  spirit  of 
shiftless,  proud,  starving  Bohemianism  as  it  is  lived 
in  Paris,  benignantly  disdainful  of  the  great  moiling, 
money-grubbing  world  that  roared  around  him,  and 
perhaps  already  the  adoration  of  some  girl  of  poetic 

183 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

or  artistic  tastes  and  aspirations,  who  was  serving 
him  as  only  the  Church  gives  a  woman  the  right. 

There  was  time  to  look  about  while  he  was  sing- 
ing, though  that  was  difficult,  so  strange  and  pathetic 
a  picture  he  made.  The  walls  of  the  room  were 
dirty  and  bare,  though  relieved  at  rare  intervals  by 
sketches  and  signs.  The  light  came  from  three  gas- 
burners,  and  was  reflected  by  a  long  mirror  at  one 
end  of  the  room. 

No  attention  had  been  paid  to  our  entrance,  ex- 
cept by  the  gargon,  a  heavy-set,  bull-necked  fellow, 
who,  with  a  sign,  bade  us  make  no  noise. 

When  the  song  had  finished  the  audience  broke 
into  uproarious  applause,  shouting,  "  Bravo,  mon 
vieux  I"  "  Bien  fait,  Marquis!"  and  the  clapping 
of  hands  and  beating  of  glasses  on  the  marble-topped 
tables  and  pounding  of  canes  on  the  floor  made  a 
mighty  din.  The  young  singer,  his  cheeks  glowing 
and  his  eyes  blazing,  modestly  rolled  up  his  music 
and  sought  his  seat. 

We  were  now  piloted  to  seats  by  the  gargon,  who, 
when  we  had  settled  ourselves,  demanded  to  know 
what  we  would  drink.  "  Deux  bocks  !"  he  yelled 
across  the  room.  "  Deux  bocks  !"  came  echoing 
back  from  the  counter,  where  a  fat  woman  presided — 
knitting. 

Several  long-haired  litterateurs — friends  of  Bishop's 
— came  up  and  saluted  him  and  shook  his  hand,  all 
with  a  certain  elegance  and  dignity.  He,  in  turn,  in- 
troduced me,  and  the  conversation  at  once  turned  to 
art,  music,  and  poetry.     Whatever  the  sensational 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

news  of  the  day,  whatever  the  crisis  in  the  cabinet, 
whatever  anything  might  have  been  that  was  stirring 
the  people  in  the  great  outside  commonplace  world, 
these  men  and  women  gave  it  no  heed  whatever. 
What  was  the  gross,  hard,  eager  world  to  them? 
Did  not  the  glories  of  the  Golden  Sun  lend  sufficient 
warmth  to  their  hearts,  and  were  not  their  vague 
aspirations  and  idle  hopes  ample  stimulants  to  their 
minds  and  spirits  ?  They  quickly  found  a  responsive 
mood  in  us,  and  this  so  delighted  them  that  they 
ordered  the  drinks. 

The  presiding  genius  at  the  piano  was  a  white- 
haired,  spiritual-looking  man,  whose  snowy  locks 
gave  the  only  indication  of  his  age  ;  for  his  face  was 
filled  with  the  eternal  youthfulness  of  a  careless  and 
contented  heart.  His  slender,  delicate  fingers  told 
of  his  temperament,  his  thin  cheeks  of  his  poverty, 
and  his  splendid  dreamy  eyes  of  the  separate  life 
that  he  lived. 

Standing  on  the  platform  beside  him  was  a  man 
of  a  very  different  type.  It  was  the  pianist's  func- 
tion to  be  merely  a  musician  ;  but  the  other  man — 
the  musical  director — was  one  from  whom  judgment, 
decision,  and  authority  were  required.  Therefore  he 
was  large,  powerful,  and  big-stomached,  and  had  a 
pumpkin  head,  and  fat,  baggy  eyes  that  shone  through 
narrow  slits.  He  now  stepped  forward  and  rang  a 
little  bell,  upon  which  all  talking  was  instantly 
hushed. 

"  Mesdames  et  messieurs,"  he  said,  in  a  large, 
capable  voice,    "  J'ai    I'honneur   de  vous   annoncer 

i8s 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


que  Madame  Louise  Leroux,  nous  lira  ses  dernieres 
oeuvres — une  faveur  que  nous  apprecierons  tous." 

A  young  woman — about   twenty-three,    I  should 
judge — arose  from  one  of  the  tables  where  she  had 
.  /  been  sitting  talking  with  an  insipid- 

u&         .:4      looking  gentleman  adorned  with  a 
sjj/jj}  \f    blond  moustache  and  vacant,  staring 
eyes  ;  he  wore  a  heavy  coat  trimmed 
;  with  astrachan  collar  and 

cuffs,  which,  being  open 
at  the  throat,  revealed 
the  absence  of  a  shirt 
from  his  body.  A  Latin 
Quarter  top-hat  was 
pushed  back  on  his  head, 
and  his  long,  greasy  hair 
hung  down  over  his  col- 
lar. Madame  Leroux 
smiled  affectionately  at 
him  as  she  daintily 
flicked  the  ashes  from 
her  cigfarette  and  laid  it 
upon  the  table,  and 
moistened  her  thin  red 
lips  with  a  yellow  liqueur  from  her  glass.  He  re- 
sponded with  a  condescending  jerk  of  his  head,  and, 
diving  into  one  of  the  inner  pockets  of  his  coat, 
brought  forth  a  roll  of  paper,  which  she  took.  A 
great  clapping  of  hands  and  loud  cries  of  her  name 
greeted  her  as  she  stepped  upon  the  platform, 
but  it  was  clearly  to  be  seen  from  her  indifferent 

1 86 


THE   PIANIST 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

air  that  she  had  been  long  accustomed  to  this  atten- 
tion. 

The  big  musical  director  again  rang  his  bell. 

"II  etait  une  Fois,"  she  said,  simply.     The  pianist 
fingered  the  keys  softly,  and  she  began  to  recite. 

The  room  was  as  still  as 
a  chapel.  Every  one  lis- 
tened in  profound  ab- 
sorption ;  even  the  stolid 
bull-necked  waiter  leaned 
against  the  wall,  his  gaze 
fastened  upon  her  with  re- 
spectful interest.  She 
spoke  slowly,  in  a  low, 
sweet  tone,  the  soft  ac- 
companiment of  the  piano 
following  the  rhythm  of 
her  voice  with  wonderful 
effectiveness.  She  seemed 
to  forget  her  surroundings, 
— the  hot,  close  room, 
crowded  with  shabby,  ec- 
centric o-eniuses  who  lived 
from  hand  to  mouth,  the 
poverty  that  evidently  was 

her  lot, — even  her  lover,  who  sat  watching  her  with 
a  cold,  critical,  half-disdainful  air,  making  notes  upon 
a  slip  of  paper,  now  nodding  his  head  approvingly, 
now  frowning,  when  pleased  or  displeased  with  her 
performance.  She  was  a  rare  picture  as  she  thus 
stood  and  recited,  a  charming  swing  to  her  trim  fig- 

187 


rx^:^-^' 


"IL   feTAIT    UNE   FOIS' 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

ure,  half  reclining  upon  the  piano,  her  black  hair  fall- 
ing loosely  and  caressing  her  forehead  and  casting 
her  dark  eyes  in  deeper  shadow,  and  all  her  soul 
going  forth  in  the  low,  soft,  subdued  passion  of  her 
verses.  She  reminded  one  greatly  of  Bernhardt, 
and  might  have  been  as  great. 

During  her  whole  rendering  of  this  beautiful  and 
pathetic  tale  of  "other  times"  she  scarcely  moved, 
save  for  some  slight  gesture  that  suggested  worlds. 
How  well  the  lines  suited  her  own  history  and  con- 
dition only  she  could  have  told.  Who  was  she  ? 
What  had  she  been  ?  Surely  this  strange  woman, 
hardly  more  than  a  mere  girl,  capable  of  such  feel- 
ings and  of  rendering  them  with  so  subtle  force  and 
beauty,  had  lived  another  life, — no  one  knew,  no  one 
cared. 

Loud  shouts  of  admiration  and  long  applause  rang 
through  the  room  as  she  slowly  and  with  infinite  ten- 
derness uttered  the  last  line  with  bowed  head  and  a 
choking  voice.  She  stood  for  a  moment  while  the 
room  thundered,  and  then  the  noise  seemed  to  recall 
her,  to  drag  her  back  from  some  haunting  memory 
to  the  squalor  of  her  present  condition,  and  then  her 
eyes  eagerly  sought  the  gentleman  of  the  fur-collared 
coat.  It  was  an  anxious  glance  that  she  cast  upon 
him.  He  carelessly  nodded  once  or  twice,  and  she 
instantly  became  transfigured.  The  melancholy  of 
her  eyes  and  the  wretched  dejection  of  her  pose  dis- 
appeared, and  her  sad  face  lit  up  with  a  beaming, 
happy  smile.  She  was  starting  to  return  to  him,  all 
the  woman  in  her  awaking  to  affection  and  a  yearn- 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

ing  for  the  refuge  of  his  love,  when  the  vociferous 
cries  of  the  crowd  for  an  encore,  and  the  waving  of 
her  lover's  hand  as  a  signal  for  her  to  comply,  sent 
her  back  on  guard  to  the  piano  again.  Her  smile 
was  very  sweet  and  her  voice  full  of  trippling  melody 
when  she  now  recited  a  gay  little  ballad, — also  her 
own  composition, — "Amours  Joyeux," — in  so  en- 
tirely different  a  spirit  that  it  was  almost  impos- 
sible to  believe  her  the  same  mortal.  Every  fibre 
of  her  being  participated  in  the  rollicking  abandon 
of  the  piece,  and  her  eyes  were  flooded  with  the 
mellow  radiance  of  supreme  love  satisfied  and  vic- 
torious. 

Upon  regaining  her  seat  she  was  immediately  sur- 
rounded by  a  praise-giving  crowd,  who  shook  hands 
with  her  and  heartily  congratulated  her  ;  but  it  was 
clear  that  she  could  think  only  of  him  of  the  fur  col- 
lar, and  that  no  word  of  praise  or  blame  would  weigh 
with  her  the  smallest  fraction  of  a  feather's  weight 
unless  this  one  man  uttered  it.  She  disengaged  her 
hand  from  her  crowding  admirers  and  deftly  donned 
her  little  white  Alpine  hat,  all  the  while  looking  into 
the  face  of  the  one  man  who  could  break  her  heart 
or  send  her  to  heaven.  He  sat  looking  at  his  boot, 
indifferent,  bored.  Presently  he  looked  up  into  her 
anxious  eyes,  gazed  at  her  a  moment,  and  then 
leaned  forward  and  spoke  a  word.  It  sent  her  to 
heaven.  Her  face  all  aglow  and  her  eyes  shining 
with  happiness,  she  called  the  gargon,  paid  for  the 
four  saucers  upon  the  table,  and  left  the  room  upon 
the  arm  of  her  lover. 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

"  How  she  does  adore  that  dog !"  exclaimed  my 
friend  the  musician. 

"  What  does  he  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Do  ?"  he  echoed.  "  Nothing.  It  is  she  who 
does  all.  Without  her  he  would  starve.  He  is  a 
writer  of  some  ability,  but  too  much  of  a  socialist  to 
work  seriously.  In  her  eyes  he  is  the  greatest  writer 
in  the  world.  She  would  sacrifice  everything  to 
please  him.  Without  him  her  life  would  fall  into  a 
complete  blank,  and  her  recklessness  would  quickly 
send  her  into  the  lowermost  ranks.  When  a  woman 
like  that  loves,  she  loves — ah,  les  femmes  sont  diffi- 
ciles  a  comprendre  !"  My  friend  sighed,  burying  his 
moustaches  in  a  foaming  bock. 

Individual  definition  grew  clearer  as  I  became 
more  and  more  accustomed  to  the  place  and  its 
habitues.  It  seemed  that  nearly  all  of  them  were 
absinthe-drinkers,  and  that  they  drank  a  great  deal, — 
all  they  could  get,  I  was  made  to  understand.  They 
care  little  about  their  dress  and  the  other  accessories 
of  their  personal  appearance,  though  here  and  there 
they  exhibit  the  oddest  finery,  into  whose  possession 
they  fall  by  means  which  casual  investigation  could 
not  discover,  and  which  is  singularly  out  of  harmony 
with  the  other  articles  of  their  attire  and  with  the  en- 
vironment which  they  choose.  As  a  rule,  the  men 
wear  their  hair  very  long  and  in  heavy,  shaggy 
masses  over  their  ears  and  faces.  They  continually 
roll  and  smoke  cigarettes,  though  there  are  many 
pipes,  and  big  ones  at  that.  But  though  they  con- 
stitute a  strange  crowd,  there  is  about  them  a  distinct 

190 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

air  of  refinement,  a  certain  dignity  and  pride  that 
never  fail,  and  withal  a  gentleness  that  renders  any 
approach  to  ruffianism  impossible.  The  women  take 
a  little  more  pride  in  their  appearance  than  the  men. 
Even  in  their  carelessness  and  seeming  indifference 
there  abides  with  nearly  all  of  them  the  power  to 
lend  themselves  some  single  touch  of  grace  that  is 
wonderfully  redeeming,  and  that  is  infinitely  finer 
and  more  elusive  than  the  showy  daintiness  of  the 
women  of  the  cafes. 

As  a  rule,  these  Bohemians  all  sleep  during  the 
day,  as  that  is  the  best  way  to  keep  warm  ;  at  night 
they  can  find  warmth  in  the  cabarets.  In  the  after- 
noon they  may  write  a  few  lines,  which  they  sell  in 
some  way  for  a  pittance,  wherewithal  to  buy  them  a 
meal  and  a  night's  vigil  in  one  of  these  resorts. 
This  is  the  life  of  lower  Bohemia  plain  and  simple, — 
not  the  life  of  the  students,  but  of  the  misfit  geniuses 
who  drift,  who  have  neither  place  nor  part  in  the 
world,  who  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  who  shud- 
der when  the  Morgue  is  mentioned, — and  it  is  so 
near,  and  its  lights  never  go  out !  They  are  merely 
protestants  against  the  formalism  of  life,  rebels 
against  its  necessities.  They  seek  no  following, 
they  desire  to  exercise  no  influence.  They  lead 
their  vacant  lives  without  the  slightest  restraint,  bear 
their  poverty  without  a  murmur,  and  go  to  their 
dreary  end  without  a  sigh.  These  are  the  true 
Bohemians  of  Paris. 

Other  visitors  came  into  the  Soleil  d'Or  and  sought 
seats  among  their  friends  at  the  tables,  while  others 

191 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

kept  leaving,  bound  for  other  rendezvous,  many 
staying  just  sufficiently  long  to  hear  a  song  or  two. 
They  were  all  of  the  same  class,  very  negligently 
and  poorly  attired,  some  displaying  their  odd  pieces 
of  finery  with  an  exquisite  assumption  of  unconscious- 
ness on  its  account,  as  though  they  were  millionaires 
and  cared  nothing  for  such  trivial  things.  And  the 
whimsical  incongruities  of  it !  If  one  wore  a  shininor 
tile  he  either  had  no  shirt  (or  perhaps  a  very  badly 
soiled  one),  or  wore  a  frayed  coat  and  disreputable 
shoes.  In  fact,  no  complete  respectable  dress  made 
its  appearance  in  the  room  that  night,  though  each 
visitor  had  his  distinctive  specialty, — one  a  burnished 
top  hat,  another  a  gorgeous  cravat,  another  a  rich 
velvet  jacket,  and  so  on.  But  they  all  wore  their 
hair  as  long  as  it  would  grow.  That  is  the  Bohemian 
mark. 

The  little  bell  again  rang,  and  the  heavy  director 
announced  that  "  Monsieur  Leon  Decarmeau  will 
sing  one  of  his  newest  songs."  Monsieur  Leon  De- 
carmeau was  a  lean,  half-starved  appearing  man  of 
about  forty,  whose  eyes  were  sunk  deep  in  his  head, 
and  whose  sharp  cheek-bones  protruded  prominently. 
On  the  bridge  of  his  thin,  angular  nose  set  a  pair  of 
"pince-nez,"  attached  by  a  broad  black  cord,  which 
he  kept  fingering  nervously  as  he  sang.  His  song 
was  entitled  "  Fleurs  et  Pensees,"  and  he  threw  him- 
self into  it  with  a  broad  and  passionate  eagerness 
that  heavily  strained  the  barrier  between  melodrama 
and  burlesque.      His  glance  sought  the  ceiling  in  a 

frenzied  quest  of  imaginary  nymphs,  his  arms  swayed 

192 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

as  he  tenderly  caressed  imaginary  flowers  of  sweet 
love  and  drank  in  their  intoxicating  perfume  instead 
of  the  hot,  tobacco-rife  smoke  of  the  room.  His 
voice  was  drawn  out  in  tremendous  sighs  full  of 
tears,  and  his  chest  heaved  like  a  blacksmith's  bel- 
lows. But  when  he  had  ceased  he  was  most  gener- 
ously applauded  and  praised. 

During  the  intervals  between  the  songs  and  reci- 
tations the  room  was  noisy  with  laughter,  talking, 
and  the  clinking  of  glasses.  The  one  gargon  was 
industriously  serving  boissons  and  yelling  orders  to 
the  bar,  where  the  fat  woman  sat  industriously  knit- 
ting, heedless,  as  might  have  been  expected  of  the 
keeper  of  the  Cave  of  Adullam,  and  awakening  to 
activity  only  w^hen  the  stentorian  yells  of  the  gargon's 
orders  rose  above  the  din  of  the  establishment. 
Absinthe  and  beer  formed  the  principal  beverages, 
though,  as  a  rule,  absinthe  was  taken  only  just  be- 
fore a  meal,  and  then  it  served  as  an  appetizer, — a 
sharpener  of  hunger  to  these  who  had  so  little 
wherewithal  to  satisfy  the  hunger  that  unaided 
nature  created ! 

The  mystery  of  the  means  by  which  these  light- 
hearted  Bohemians  sustained  their  precarious  exist- 
ence was  not  revealed  to  me  ;  yet  here  they  sat,  and 
laughed,  and  talked,  and  recited  the  poetry  of  their 
own  manufacture,  and  sang  their  songs,  and  drank, 
and  smoked  their  big  pipes,  and  rolled  cigarettes  in- 
cessantly, happy  enough  in  the  hour  of  their  lives, 
bringing  hither  none  of  the  pains  and  pangs  and 
numbing  evidences  of  their  struggles.     And  there 

13  »93 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

was  no  touch  of  the  sordid  in  the  composite  picture 
that  they  made,  and  a  certain  tinge  of  intellectual 
refinement,  a  certain  spirituality  that  seemed  to  raise 
them  infinitely  above  the  plane  of  the  lowly  strugglers 
who  won  their  honest  bread  by  honest  labor,  shone 
about  them  as  a  halo. 

Their  dark  hours,  no  doubt,  came  wdth  the  day- 
light, and  in  these  meetings  at  the  cabaret  they  found 
an  agreeable  way  in  which  to  while  away  the  dismal 
interval  that  burdened  their  lives  when  they  were  not 
asleep  ;  for  the  cabaret  was  warm  and  bright,  warmer 
and  brighter  than  their  own  wretched  little  rooms  au 
cinquieme, — and  coal  and  candles  are  expensive 
luxuries  !  Here,  if  their  productions  haply  could  not 
find  a  larger  and  more  remunerative  audience,  they 
could  at  least  be  heard, — by  a  few,  it  is  true,  but  a 
most  appreciative  few,  and  that  is  something  of  value 
equal  to  bread.  And  then,  who  could  tell  but  what 
fame  might  unexpectedly  crown  them  in  the  end  ? 
It  has  happened  thus. 

"But  why  worry  ?"  asked  the  musician.  " '  Laugh, 
and  the  world  laughs  with  you.  If  we  do  not  live  a 
long  life,  it  is  at  least  a  jolly  one,'  is  our  motto  ;" 
and  certainly  they  gave  it  most  faithful  allegiance. 

I  learned  from  Bishop  that  the  musical  director  re- 
ceived three  francs  a  night  for  his  services.  Should 
singers  happen  to  be  lacking,  or  should  the  evening 
be  dull  for  other  reason,  he  himself  must  sing  and  re- 
cite ;  for  the  tension  of  the  Soleil  d'Or  must  be  kept 
forever  taut.     The  old  white-haired  pianist  received 

two  francs  a  night,  and  each  of  these  contributors  to 

194 


LE   CABARET   DU    SOLEIL   DOR 

the  gayety  of  the  place  was  given  a  drink  gratis.  So 
there  was  at  least  some  recompense  besides  the 
essential  one  of  appreciation  from  the  audience. 

Glasses  clinked  merrily,  and  poets  and  composers 
flitted  about  the  room  to  chat  with  their  contem- 
poraries. A  sketch  artist,  deftly  drawing  the  por- 
trait of  a  baritone's  jolly  little  mistress,  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  bantering  group,  that  passed  keen, 
intelligent,  and  good  natured  criticism  on  the  work 
as  it  rapidly  grew  under  his  hands.  The  white- 
haired  pianist  sat  puffing  at  his  cigarette  and  looking 
over  some  music  with  a  rather  pretty  young  woman" 
who  had  written  popular  songs  of  La  Villette. 

The  opening  of  the  doors  and  the  straggling  en- 
trance of  three  men  sent  an  instant  hush  throughout 
the  room. 

"  Verlaine  !"  whispered  the  musician  to  me. 

It  was  indeed  the  great  poet  of  the  slums, — the 
epitome  and  idol  of  Bohemian  Paris,  the  famous  man 
whose  verses  had  rung  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  city,  the  one  man  who,  knowing  the 
heart  and  soul  of  the  strugglers  who  found  light  and 
warmth  in  such  places  as  the  Soleil  d'Or,  had  the 
brains  and  grace  to  set  the  strange  picture  adequately 
before  the  wondering  world. 

The  musical  director,  as  well  as  a  number  of  others 
in  the  place,  stepped  forward,  and  with  touching  def- 
erence and  tenderness  greeted  the  remarkable  man 
and  his  two  companions.  It  was  easy  to  pick  out 
Verlaine  without  relying  upon  the  special  distinction 
with  which  he  was  greeted.      He  had  the  oddest 

195 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


slanting  eyes,  a  small,  stubby  nose,  and  wiry  whiskers, 
and  his  massive  forehead  heavily  overhung  his  queerly 
shaped  eyes.  He  was  all  muffled  up  to  the  chin  ; 
wore  a  badly  soiled  hat  and  a  shabby  dark  coat. 
Under  one  arm  he  carried  a  small  black  portfolio. 
Several  of  the  women  ran  to  him  and 
kissed  him  on  both  cheeks,  which 
salutations  he  heartily  returned,  with 
interest. 

One  of  his  companions  was  Mon- 
sieur Bi-Bi-dans-la-Puree — so  he  was 
called,  though  seemingly  he  might 
have  been  in  anything  as  well  as 
soup.  He  was  an  exceedingly  inter- 
esting figure.  His  sunken,  drawn, 
smooth-shaven  face  gave  terrible  evi- 
dence of  the  excessive  use  of  ab- 
sinthe. A  large  hooked  nose  over- 
shadowed a  wide,  loose  mouth  that 
hung  down  at  the  corners,  and  served 
to  set  forth  in  startling  relief  the 
sickly  leaden  color  of  his  face.  When  he  spoke,  a 
few  straggling  teeth  gleamed  unpleasantly.  He  wore 
no  overcoat,  and  his  jacket  hung  open,  disclosing  a 
half-opened  shirt  that  exposed  his  bare  breast.  His 
frayed  trousers  dragged  the  ground  at  his  heels. 
But  his  eyes  were  the  most  terrible  part  of  him  ; 
they  shone  with  the  wild,  restless  light  of  a  madman, 
and  their  gaze  was  generally  flitting  and  distrait,  ac- 
knowledging no  acquaintances.      Afterwards,  when 

Verlaine  was  dead,  I  often  saw  Monsieur  Bi-Bi-dans- 

196 


BI-BI-DANS-LA-PUREE 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

la-Puree  on  the  street,  looking  most  desolate,  a  roll 
of  white  manuscript  in  his  hand,  his  coat  and  shirt 
wide  open,  exposing  his  naked  breast  to  the  biting 
cold  wind.  He  seemed  to  be  living  altogether  in 
another  world,  and  gazed  about  him  with  the  same 
unseeing  vacant  stare  that  so  startled  me  that  night 
in  the  Soleil  d'Or. 

When  Verlaine  and  his  companions  were  seated — 
by  displacing  the  artist — the  recitations  and  songs 
recommenced  ;  and  it  was  noticeable  that  they  were 
rendered  with  augmented  spirit,  that  the  famous  poet 
of  the  slums  might  be  duly  impressed  with  the  capa- 
bilities and  hospitable  intentions  of  his  entertainers  ; 
for  now  all  performed  for  Verlaine,  not  for  one  an- 
other. The  distinguished  visitor  had  removed  his 
slouch  hat,  revealing  the  wonderful  oblong  dome  of 
his  bald  head,  which  shone  like  the  Soleil  d'Or;  and 
many  were  the  kisses  reverently  and  affectionately 
bestowed  upon  that  glistening  eminence  by  the  poet's 
numerous  female  admirers  in  the  throng. 

A  reckless-looking  young  woman,  with  a  black  hat 
drawn  down  over  her  eyes,  and  wearing  glasses,  was 
now  reciting.  Her  hands  were  gloved  in  black,  but 
the  finger-tips  were  worn  through, — a  fact  which  she 
made  all  the  more  evident  by  a  peculiar  gesture  of 
the  fingers. 

As  the  small  hours  grew  larger  these  gay  Bohe- 
mians waxed  gayer  and  livelier.  Formalities  were 
gradually  abandoned,  and  the  constraint  of  dignity 
and  reserve  slowly  melted  under  the  mellowing  in- 
fluences of  the   place.      Ceremonious  observances 

197 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

were  dropped  one  by  one  ;  and  whereas  there  had 
been  the  most  respectful  and  insistent  silence 
throughout  the  songs,  now  all  joined  heartily  in  the 
choruses,  making  the  dim  lights  dance  in  the  exuber- 
ance of  the  enjoyment.  I  had  earnestly  hoped  that 
Verlaine,  splendid  as  was  his  dignity,  might  thaw 
under  the  gathering  warmth  of  the  hour,  but  beyond 
listening  respectfully,  applauding  moderately,  and 
returning  the  greetings  that  were  given  him,  he  held 
aloof  from  the  influence  of  the  occasion,  and  after 
draining  his  glass  and  bidding  good-night  to  his 
many  friends,  with  his  two  companions  he  made  off 
to  another  rendezvous. 

Monsieur  le  Directeur  came  over  to  our  table  and 
asked  Bishop  to  favor  the  audience  with  a  "  chan- 
son Americaine."  This  rather  staggered  my  modest 
friend,  but  he  finally  yielded  to  entreaties.  The  di- 
rector rang  his  little  bell  again  and  announced  that 
"  Monsieur  Beeshup"  would  sing  a  song  a  TAmeri- 
caine.  This  was  received  with  uproarious  shouts 
by  all,  and  several  left  their  seats  and  escorted 
Bishop  to  the  platform.  I  wondered  what  on  earth 
he  would  sing.  The  accompanist,  after  a  little  coach- 
ing from  Bishop,  assailed  the  chords,  and  Bishop 
began  drawling  out  his  old  favorite,  "  Down  on  the 
Farm."  He  did  it  nobly,  too,  giving  the  accompanist 
occasion  for  labor  in  finding  the  more  difficult  harmo- 
nies. The  hearers,  though  they  did  not  understand 
a  word  of  the  ditty,  and  therefore  lost  the  whole 
of  its  pathos,  nevertheless  listened  with  curious  in- 
terest and  respect,  though  with  evident  veiled  amuse- 

198 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL  D'OR 

ment.  Many  quick  ears  caught  the  refrain.  At  first 
there  came  an  exceedingly  soft  chorus  from  the 
room,  and  it  gradually  rose  until  the  whole  crowd 
had  thrown  itself  into  the  spirit  of  the  melody,  and 
swelled  it  to  a  mighty  volume.  Bishop  led  the 
singers,  beating  time  with  his  right  arm,  his  left 
thumb  meanwhile  hooked  in  the  arm-hole  of  his 
waistcoat.  "  Bravo  !  Bravo,  Beeshup  !  Bis  !"  they 
yelled,  when  it  was  finished,  and  then  the  room  rang 
with  a  salvo  of  hand-clappings  in  unison  :   1-2-3-4 

-5— 1-2-3-4-5— 1-2-3-4-5— I— 2— 3!!  A  great 
ovation  greeted  him  as  he  marched  with  glowing 
cheeks  to  his  seat,  and  those  who  knew  him  crowded 
round  him  for  a  hand-shake.  The  musician  asked 
him  if  he  would  sing  the  song  in  private  for  him, 
that  he  might  write  down  the  melody,  to  which  Bishop 
agreed,  on  condition  that  the  musician  pose  for  him. 
Bishop  had  a  singularly  sharp  eye  for  opportunities. 
The  sketch  artist  sauntered  over  and  sat  down  at 
our  table  to  have  a  chat  with  Bishop.  He  was  a  sin- 
gular fellow.  His  manner  was  smoothed  by  a  fine 
and  delicate  courtesy,  bespeaking  a  careful  rearing, 
whose  effects  his  loose  life  and  promiscuous  associa- 
tions could  not  obliterate.  His  age  was  about  thirty- 
two,  though  he  looked  much  older, — this  being  due 
in  part  to  his  hard  life  and  in  other  part  to  the  heavy 
whiskers  that  he  wore.  An  absurd  little  round  felt 
hat  sat  precariously  on  his  riotous  mane,  and  I  was 
in  constant  apprehension  lest  it  should  fall  off  every 
time  he  shook  his  head.  Over  his  shoulders  was  a 
blue  cape  covering  a  once  white  shirt  that  was  de- 

199 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

void  of  a  collar.  His  fingers  were  all  black  with 
the  crayon  that  he  had  used  in  sketching.  He  said 
that  he  had  already  earned  twelve  sous  that  evening, 


THE    SKETCH    ARTIST 


making  portraits  at  six  sous  a  head  !  But  there  was 
not  so  much  money  to  be  made  in  a  place  like  this 
as  in  the  big  cafes, — the  frequenters  were  too  poor. 
I  asked  him  where  he  had  studied  and  learned  his 
art,  for  it  could  be  easily  seen  that  he  had  had  some 
training  ;  his  portraits  were  not  half  bad,  and  showed 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

a  knowledge  of  drawing.  He  thereupon  told  me 
his  story. 

He  had  come  to  Paris  thirteen  years  before  from 
Nantes,  Brittany,  to  study  art.  His  father  kept  a 
small  grocery  and  provision-shop  in  Nantes,  and 
lived  in  meagre  circumstances.  The  son  having  dis- 
covered what  his  father  deemed  a  remarkable  talent 
for  drawing  when  a  boy,  the  father  sent  him  to  Paris, 
with  an  allowance  of  a  hundred  francs  a  month,  and 
he  had  to  deny  himself  severely  to  furnish  it.  When 
the  young  man  arrived  at  Paris  he  studied  diligently 
at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux- Arts  for  a  while,  and  became 
acquainted  with  many  of  the  students  and  models. 
He  soon  found  the  easy  life  of  the  cafes,  with  the 
models  for  companions,  more  fascinating  than  the 
dull  grind  of  the  school.  It  was  much  pleasanter  to 
enjoy  the  gayety  of  the  nights  and  sleep  all  day  than 
drone  and  labor  at  his  easel.  As  his  small  allowance 
did  not  permit  of  extravagance,  he  fell  deeply  into 
debt,  and  gave  more  heed  to  absinthe  than  his  meals, 
— it  is  cheaper,  more  alluring,  and  brings  an  exhila- 
ration that  sharpens  wit  and  equips  the  soul  with 
wings. 

For  a  whole  year  the  father  was  in  total  ignorance 
of  his  son's  conduct,  but  one  day  a  friend,  who  had 
seen  the  young  man  in  Paris,  laid  the  ugly  story  in 
his  father's  ear.  This  so  enraged  the  father  that  he 
instantly  stopped  the  remittances  and  disowned  his 
son.  All  appeals  for  money,  all  promises  to  reform, 
were  in  vain,  and  so  the  young  madcap  was  forced  to 
look  about  for  a  means  of  subsistence.     And  thus  it 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

was  that  he  drifted  into  the  occupation  of  a  sketch 
artist,  making  portraits  in  the  cafes  all  night  and 
sleeping  in  daytime.  This  brought  him  a  scant 
living. 

But  there  was  his  mistress,  Marcelle,  always  faith- 
ful to  him.  She  worked  during  the  day  at  sewing, 
and  shared  her  small  earnings  with  him.  All  went 
fairly  well  during  the  summer,  but  in  winter  the  days 
were  short,  Marcelle' s  earnings  were  reduced,  and 
the  weather  was  bitter  cold.  Still,  it  was  not  so 
bad  as  it  might  be,  he  protested  ;  but  underneath 
his  easy  flippancy  I  imagined  I  caught  a  shadow, — 
a  flitting  sense  of  the  hollowness  and  misery  and 
hopelessness  and  shame  of  it  all.  But  I  am  not 
certain  of  that.  He  had  but  gone  the  way  of  many 
and  many  another,  and  others  now  are  following  in 
his  footsteps,  deluding  self-denying  parents,  and  set- 
ting foot  in  the  road  which,  so  broad  and  shining  at 
the  beginning,  narrows  and  darkens  as  it  leads  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  rat-holes  under  the  bridges  of  the 
Seine,  and  to  the  grim  house  whose  lights  forever 
shine  at  night  under  the  shadow  of  Notre- Dame. 

Had  monsieur  a  cigarette  to  spare?  Monsieur 
had,  and  monsieur  thought  that  the  thanks  for  it  were 
out  of  all  proportion  to  its  value ;  but  they  were  to- 
tally eclipsed  by  the  praises  of  monsieur's  wonderful 
generosity  in  paying  for  a  glass  of  absinthe  and  sugar 
for  the  man  who  made  faces  at  six  sous  apiece. 

The  quiet  but  none  the  less  high  tension  of  the 
place,  the  noise  of  the  singing,  the  rattling  of  glasses 
and  saucers,  the  stifling  foul  air  of  the  room,  filled 


LE   CABARET   DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

me  with  weariness  and  threatened  me  with  nausea. 
Things  had  moved  in  a  constant  whirl  all  night,  and 
now  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock.  How  much  longer 
will  this  last  ? 

"Till  five  o'clock,"  answered  the  musician  ;  then 
all  the  lights  go  out,  and  the  place  is  closed  ;  and  our 
friends  seek  their  cold,  cheerless  rooms,  to  sleep  far 
into  the  afternoon. 

We  paid  for  our  saucers,  and  after  parting  adieux 
left  in  company  with  the  musician  and  the  aesthetic 
poet.  How  deliciously  sharp  and  refreshing  was  the 
cold,  biting  air  as  we  stepped  out  into  the  night !  It 
seemed  as  though  I  had  been  breathing  molasses. 
The  fog  was  thicker  than  ever,  and  the  night  was 
colder.  The  two  twisted  gas-lamps  were  no  longer 
burning  as  we  crossed  the  slippery  stone-paved  court 
and  ascended  to  the  narrow  street.  The  musician 
wrapped  a  gray  muffler  about  his  throat  and  thrust 
his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets.  The  poet  had  no 
top-coat,  but  he  buttoned  his  thin  jacket  tightly  about 
him,  and  shivered. 

"  Shall  we  have  some  lait  chaud  and  a  croissant?" 
inquired  the  musician. 

Yes,  anything  hot  would  be  good,  even  milk  ;  but 
where  could  we  get  it  ? 

"Ah,  you  shall  see  !" 

We  had  not  gone  far  when  it  gave  me  a  start  to 
recognize  a  figure  that  we  had  seen  in  the  Boul' 
Mich'  on  our  way  to  the  Soleil  d'Or.  It  was  that  of 
an  outcast  of  the  boulevards,  now  slinking  through 

the  shadows  toward  the  river.      We  had  been  ac- 

203 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


costed  by  him  in  front  of  one  of  the  brilHant  cafes, 
as,  trembhng  and  rubbing  his  hands,  a  picture  of 

hopeless  dejection  and 
misery,  and  in  a  quaver- 
ing voice   he   begged    us 


AN  OUTCAST  OF  THE  BOULEVARDS 


to  buy  him  a  drink  of  brandy.     It  probably  saved 
him  from  an  attack  of  delirium  tremens  that  night, 

204 


LE  CABARET  DU   SOLEIL   D'OR 

but  here  he  was  drifting,  with  a  singular  fataHty, 
toward  the  river  and  the  Morgue.  Now,  that  his 
day's  work  of  begging  was  done,  all  his  jackal 
watchfulness  had  disappeared,  and  an  inner  vision 
seemed  to  look  forth  from  his  bleared  eyes  as  their 
gaze  strained  straight  and  dull  toward  the  black 
river.  It  may  have  been  a  mere  fancy,  but  the  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes  reminded  me  strongly  of  similar 
things  that  I  had  seen  on  the  slabs  in  the  Morgue. 

We  crossed  the  Rue  du  Haut-Pave  again  to  the 
river  wall,  and  arrived  at  the  bridge  leading  back  of 
Notre-Dame  and  past  the  Morgue.  On  the  farther 
end  of  the  bridge,  propped  against  the  parapet,  was 
a  small  stand,  upon  a  corner  of  which  a  dim  lamp 
was  burning.  In  front  were  a  number  of  milk-cans, 
and  on  a  small  counter  were  a  row  of  thick  white 
bowls  and  a  basket  of  croissants.  Inside,  upon  a 
small  stove,  red  with  heat,  were  two  kettles  from 
which  issued  clouds  of  steam  bearing  an  odor  of  boil- 
ing milk.  A  stout  woman,  her  face  so  well  wrapped 
in  a  shawl  that  only  the  end  of  her  red  nose  was  visi- 
ble, greeted  us, — 

"  Bon  jour,  messieurs.  En  voulez-vous  du  bon 
lait  bien  chaud?" 

She  poured  out  four  bowls  of  steaming  milk,  and 
gave  us  each  a  roll.  For  this  luxury  we  paid  three 
sous  each  ;  and  a  feast  it  was,  for  the  shivering  poet, 
at  least,  for  he  licked  the  hot  bowl  clean  and  ate  the 
very  crumbs  of  his  croissant. 

As  we  were  bound  for  widely  separated  quar- 
ters, our  Bohemian  friends  bade  us  an  affectionate 

205 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

good-night,  and  were  soon  swallowed  up  in  the 
gloom.  We  turned  towards  home  and  the  Boul' 
Mich'.  All  the  cafes  were  closed  and  dark,  but 
the  boulevard  was  alive  with  canal-boatmen,  street- 
sweepers,  and  rumbling  vegetable-  and  milk-carts. 
The  streets  were  being  washed  clean  of  all  evi- 
dences of  the  previous  day's  life  and  turmoil,  and 
the  great  city  was  creeping  forth  from  its  lair  to 
begin  another. 


UN    LITTERATEUR    DE 
BOHEME 


THE   CAFE  PROCOPE 

IN  the  short,  busy  Httle  street,  the  Rue  de  I'An- 
cienne-Comedie,  which  runs  from  the  Boulevard 
St.  Germain,  in  a  Hne  from  the  Theatre  National 
de  rOd^on  and  connecting  with  the  Rue  Mazarin, 
its  continuation,  the  heavy  dome  of  the  Institut  loom- 
ing at  its  end,  is  to  be  found  probably  the  most 
famous  cafe  in  Paris,  for  in  its  day  it  has  been  the 
rendezvous  of  the  most  noted  French  litterateurs, 
politicians,  and  savants.  What  is  more,  the  Procope 
was  the  first  cafe  established  in  Paris,  originating  the 
appellation  "cafe"  to  a  place  where  coffee  is  served, 
for  it  was  here  that  coffee  was  introduced  to  France 
as  an  after-dinner  comforter. 

That  was  when  the  famous  cafe  was  in  its  glory.  • 
Some  of  the  great  celebrities  who  made  it  famous 
have  been  dead  for  nearly  two  hundred  years,  though 
its  greatest  fame  came  a  century  afterwards  ;  and  now 
the  cafe,  no  longer  glorious  as  it  was  when  the  old 
Theatre  Frangais  stood  opposite,  reposes  in  a  quiet 
street  far  from  the  noise  and  glitter  and  life  of  the 
boulevards,  and  lives  on  the  splendid  memories  that 
crowd  it.  Other  cafes  by  the  thousand  have  sprung 
into  existence,  and  the  word  has  spread  to  coffee  sa- 
loons and  restaurants  throughout  Christendom  ;  and 

the  ancient  rive  droite  nurses  the  history  and  relics 

207 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

of  the  golden  days  of  its  glory,  alone  in  a  quiet 
street,  surrounded  by  tightly  shut  shops,  and  the 
calm  of  a  sleeping  village. 

Still,  it  retains  many  of  its  ancient  characteristics 
and  much  of  the  old-time  quaintness  peculiar  to  itself 
and  setting  it  wholly  apart,  and  it  is  yet  the  rendez- 
vous of  litterateurs  and  artists,  who,  if  not  so  famous 
as  the  great  men  in  whose  seats  they  sit,  play  a  con- 
siderable role  in  the  life  of  modern  Paris. 

The  front  of  the  cafe  is  a  neat  little  terrace  off  the 
street,  screened  by  a  fanciful  net-work  of  vines  and 
shrubbery  that  spring  from  green  painted  boxes  and 
that  conceal  cosey  little  tables  and  corners  placed 
behind  them.  Instead  of  the  usual  showy  plate- 
windows,  one  still  finds  the  quaint  old  window-panes, 
very  small  carreaux,  kept  highly  polished  by  the  tire- 
less gar^on  apprentice. 

Tacked  to  the  white  pillars  are  numerous  copies 
of  Le  Procope,  a  weekly  journal  published  by  Theo, 
the  proprietor  of  the  cafe.  Its  contributors  are  the 
authors,  journalists,  and  poets  who  frequent  the  cafe, 
and  it  publishes  a  number  of  portraits  besides,  and 
some  spirited  drawings.  It  is  devoted  in  part  to 
the  history  of  the  cafe  and  of  the  celebrities  who 
have  made  it  famous,  and  publishes  portraits  of  them, 
from  Voltaire  to  Paul  Verlaine.  This  same  journal 
was  published  here  over  two  hundred  years  ago,  in 
1689,  and  it  was  the  means  then  by  which  the  patrons 
of  the  establishment  kept  in  closer  touch  with  their 
contemporaries  and  the  spirit  of  the  time.     Theo  is 

proprietor  and  business  manager,  as  well  as  editor. 

208 


THE   CAFE   PROCOPE 


The  following  two  poems  will  give  an  idea  of  the 
grace  of  the  matter  contained  in  Le  Procope  : 


AUNE   ESPAGNOLE 

Au  loin,  quand,  I'oeil  reveur  et  d'ennuis  Tame  pleine, 
Je  suivrai  sur  les  flots  le  vol  des  alcyons 
Chaque  soir  surgira  dans  les  derniers  rayons 
Le  profil  triste  et  doux  d'  Ida,  de  ma  sirene. 

La  figure  et  de  lys  et  d'iris  transparente, 
Ressortira  plus  blanche  en  1' ombre  des  cheveux 
Profonds  comme  un  mystere  et  troublants  et  mes  yeux 
Boiront  dans  1' Ideal  sa  caresse  enivrante. 

Et  je  rechercherai  I'enigme  du  sourire 

Railleur  ou  de  pitie  qui  luisait  dans  ses  yeux 

En  des  paillettes  d'or  sous  ses  beaux  cils  ombreux.  .  .  . 

Et  je  retomberai  dans  la  tristesse  .  .  .  et  dire 
Qu'un  seul  mot  me  rendrait  et  la  vie  et  I'espoir: 
Belle,  mon  rendez-vous  n'est-il  point  pour  ce  soir? 

I.  Birr. 

PETITE  CHANSON  DfiSOL^E 

Je  suis  seul  dans  la  grande  ville 
Ou  nul  n'a  fete  mon  retour, 
Coeur  vide,  et  cerveau  qui  vacille, 
Sans  projet,  sans  but,  sans  amour 
Je  suis  seul  dans  la  grande  ville. 

Le  dos  voCite,  les  bras  ballants, 
Je  marche  au  hasard  dans  la  foule 
A  longs  pas  lourds  et  nonchalants. 
On  me  pousse,  heurte,  refoule, 
Le  dos  voQte,  les  bras  ballants. 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

Je  suis  accable  de  silence, 

De  ce  silence  interieur, 

Tel  iin  brouillard  subtil  et  dense, 

Qui  tombe  a  plis  lourds  sur  le  coeur, 

Je  suis  accable  de  silence. 

Ah  !  quand  viendront  les  jours  heureux, 

Quand  viendra  la  chere  attendue 

Qu'espere  mon  coeur  amoureux, 

Qu' implore  mon  ame  eperdue, 

Ah  !  quand  viendront  les  jours  heureux  ! 

ACHILLE   SeGARD. 

Here  is  a  particularly  charming  little  poem,  written 
in  the  musical  French  of  two  or  three  centuries  ago : 

UN  BAYSER 

Sur  vostre  levre  fraiche  et  rose, 
Ma  mye,  ah  !  laissiez-moi  poser 
Cette  tant  bonne  et  doulce  chose, 
Un  bayser. 

Telle  una  fleur  au  jour  6close, 
le  vols  vostre  teint  se  roser ; 
Si  ie  vous  redonnois, — ie  n'ose, 
Un  bayser. 

Laissiez-moi  vous  prendre,  inhumaine, 
A  chascun  iour  de  la  sepmaine 
Un  bayser. 

Trop  tot  viendront  vieil  aage  et  peine  ! 
Lors  n'aurez  plus,  feussiez-vous  reine, 
Un  bayser. 

Maistre  Guillaume. 


THE   CAFE   PROCOPE 

The  modern  gas  illumination  of  the  cafe,  in  con- 
trast to  the  fashion  of  brilliant  lighting  that  prevails 
in  the  showy  cafes  of  the  boulevards,  must  neverthe- 
less be  a  great  advance  on  the  ancient  way  that  it 
had  of  being  lighted  with  crude  oil  lamps  and  can- 
delabra. But  the  dim  illumination  is  in  perfect 
keeping  with  the  other  appointments  of  the  place, 
which  are  dark,  sombre,  and  funereal.  The  interior 
of  the  Procope  is  as  dark  as  a  finely  colored  old 
meerschaum  pipe.  The  woodwork,  the  chairs,  and 
the  tables  are  deeply  stained  by  time,  the  contrasting 
white  marble  tops  of  the  tables  suggesting  grave- 
stones ;  and  with  all  these  go  the  deeply  discolored 
walls  and  the  many  ancient  paintings, — even  the 
caisse,  behind  which  sits  Madame  Theo,  dozing  over 
her  knitting.  This  caisse  is  a  wonderful  piece  of 
furniture  in  itself,  of  some  rich  dark  wood,  beauti- 
fully carved  and  decorated. 

Madame  Theo  is  in  black,  her  head  resting  against 
the  frame  of  an  old  crayon  portrait  of  Voltaire  on 
the  wall  behind  her.  A  fat  and  comfortable  black 
cat  is  asleep  in  the  midst  of  rows  of  white  saucers 
and  snowy  napkins.  The  only  gargon,  except  the 
gargon  apprentice,  is  sitting  in  a  corner  drowsing 
over  an  evening  paper,  but  ever  ready  to  answer  the 
quiet  calls  of  the  customers.  For  in  the  matter 
of  noise  and  frivolity  the  Cafe  Procope  is  wholly  un- 
like the  boulevard  cafes.  An  atmosphere  of  refined 
and  elegant  suppression  pervades  the  place ;  the 
roystering  spirit  that  haunts  the  boulevards  stops  at 
the  portals  of  the  Procope.     Here  all  is  peace  and 

213 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

tranquillity,  and  that  is  why  it  is  the  haunt  of  many 
earnest  aud  aspiring  poets  and  authors  ;  for  hither 
they  may  bring  their  portfolios  in  peace  and  security, 
and  here  they  may  work  upon  their  manuscripts, 
knowing  that  their  neighbors  are  similarly  engrossed 
and  that  intrusion  is  not  to  be  feared.  And  then, 
too,  are  they  not  sitting  on  the  same  chairs  and 
writing  at  the  same  tables  that  have  been  occupied 
by  some  of  the  greatest  men  in  all  the  brilliant  history 
of  France  ?  Is  not  this  the  place  in  which  great- 
ness had  budded  and  blossomed  in  the  centuries 
gone  ?  Are  not  these  ancient  walls  the  same  that 
echoed  the  wit,  badinage,  and  laughter  of  the  mas- 
ters ?  And  there  are  the  portraits  of  the  great  them- 
selves, looking  down  benignly  and  encouragingly 
upon  the  young  strugglers  striving  to  follow  in  their 
footsteps,  and  into  the  ghostly  mirrors,  damaged  by 
time  and  now  sending  back  only  ghosts  of  shadows, 
they  look  as  the  great  had  looked  before  them.  It 
is  here,  therefore,  that  many  of  the  modern  geniuses 
of  France  have  drawn  their  inspiration,  shaking  off 
the  endless  turmoil  of  the  noisy  and  bustling  world, 
living  with  the  works  and  memories  of  the  ancient 
dead,  and  working  out  their  destiny  under  the  magic 
spell  that  hovers  about  the  place.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  the  habitues  are  jealous  of  the  intrusion 
of  the  curious  and  worldly.  In  this  quiet  and  se- 
cure retreat  they  feel  no  impinging  of  the  wearing 
and  crippling  world  that  roars  and  surges  through 
the  busy  streets  and  boulevards. 

M.  Theo  de  Bellefond  is  the  full  name  of  the  pro- 

214 


THE   CAFE   PROCOPE 

prietor,  but  he  is  commonly  known  as  M,  Theo.  He 
is  a  jolly  little  man,  with  an  ambitious  round  stomach, 
a  benevolent  face  covered  with  a  Vandyke  beard, 
and  a  shining  bald  head.  A  large  flowing  black 
cravat,  tied  into  an  artistic  neglige  bow,  hides  his 
shirt.  M.  Theo  came  into  possession  of  the  Procope 
in  1893,  a  fact  duly  recorded  on  a  door  panel,  along 
with  the  names  of  over  a  score  of  the  celebrities 
who  have  made  the  Procope  their  place  of  rest,  re- 
fection, and  social  enjoyment.  M.  Procope  was  a 
journalist  in  his  day,  but  now  the  ambition  that 
moves  him  is  to  restore  the  ancient  glory  of  the 
Procope ;  to  make  it  again  the  centre  of  French 
brains  and  power  in  letters,  art,  and  politics.  To 
this  end  he  exerts  all  his  journalistic  tact,  a  fact 
clearly  shown  by  the  able  manner  in  which  he  con- 
ducts his  journal,  Le  Procope.  He  has  worked  out 
the  history  of  the  cafe,  and  has  at  the  ends  of  his 
fingers  the  life- stories  of  its  famous  patrons. 

The  Cafe  Procope  was  founded  in  1689  by  Fran- 
cois Procope,  where  it  now  stands.  Opposite  was 
the  Comedie  Frangaise,  which  also  was  opened  that 
year.  The  cafe  soon  became  the  rendezvous  of  all 
who  aspired  to  greatness  in  art,  letters,  philosophy, 
and  politics.  It  was  here  that  Voltaire,  in  his  eighty- 
second  year,  while  attending  the  rehearsals  of  his 
play,  "Irene,"  descended  from  his  chaise-a-porteur 
at  the  door  of  the  Cafe  Procope,  and  drank  the 
coffee  which  the  cafe  had  made  fashionable.  It  was 
here  also  that  he  became  reconciled  to  Piron,  after 

an  estrangement  of  more  than  twenty  years. 

217 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

Ste.-Foix  made  trouble  here  one  day  about  a  cup 
of  chocolate.  A  duel  with  the  proprietor  of  the  cafe 
was  the  immediate  result,  and  after  it  Ste.-Foix, 
badly  wounded,  exclaimed,  "Nevertheless,  monsieur, 
your  sword-thrust  does  not  prevent  my  saying  that  a 
very  sickly  dejeuner  is  une  tasse  de  chocolat !" 

Jean-Jacques  Rousseau,  after  the  successful  repre- 
sentation of  "  Le  Devin  de  Village,"  was  carried  in 
triumph  to  the  Procope  by  Condorcet,  who,  with 
Jean-Jacques  on  his  shoulders,  made  a  tour  of  the 
crowded  cafe,  yelling,  "  Vive  la  Musique  Frangaise  !" 

Diderot  was  fond  of  sittingr  in  a  corner  and  manu- 
facturing  paradoxes  and  materialistic  dissertations  to 
provoke  the  lieutenant  of  police,  who  would  note 
everything  he  said  and  report  it  to  the  chief  of 
police.  The  lieutenant,  ambitious  though  stupid,  one 
night  told  his  chief  that  Diderot  had  said  one  never 
saw  souls  ;  to  which  the  chief  returned,  "  M,  Diderot 
se  trompe.  L'ame  est  un  esprit,  et  M.  Diderot  est 
plein  d' esprit." 

Danton  delighted  in  playing  chess  in  a  quiet  corner 
with  a  strong  adversary  in  the  person  of  Marat. 
Many  other  famous  revolutionists  assembled  here, 
among  them  Fabre  d' Eglantine,  Robespierre,  d'Hol- 
bach,  Mirabeau,  Camille  Desmoulins.  It  was  here 
that  Camille  Desmoulins  was  to  be  strangled  by  the 
reactionists  in  the  Revolution  ;  it  was  here  that  the 
first  bonnet  rouge  was  donned.  The  massacre  of 
December,  1792,  was  here  planned,  and  the  killing 
began  at  the  very  doors  of  the  cafe.  Madame  Ro- 
land, Lucille   Desmoulins,  and  the  wife  of  Danton 

218 


THE   CAFE   PROCOPE 

met  here  on  the  loth  of  August,  the  day  of  the  fall 
of  the  monarchy,  when  bells  rang  and  cannon  thun- 
dered. It  was  later  that  Bonaparte,  then  quite 
young  and  living  in  the  Quai  Conti,  in  the  building 
which  the  American  Art  Association  now  occupies, 
left  his  hat  at  the  Procope  as  security  for  payment 
for  a  drink,  he  having  left  his  purse  at  home.  In 
short,  the  old  cafe  of  the  Rue  des  Fosses-St.-Ger- 
main  (its  old  name)  was  famous  as  the  meeting- 
place  of  celebrities.  Legendre,  the  great  geometri- 
cian, came  hither.  One  remembers  the  verses  of 
Masset :  "Je  joue  aux  dominos  quelquefois  chez 
Procope."  Here  Gambetta  made  speeches  to  the 
reactionist  politicians  and  journalists.  He  engaged 
in  more  than  one  prise  de  bee  with  le  pere  Coquille, 
friend  of  Veuillot.  Coquille  always  made  sprightly 
and  spirited  replies  when  Gambetta  roared,  thun- 
dered, and  swore. 

Since  then  have  followed  days  of  calm.  In  later 
times  Paul  Verlaine  was  a  frequenter  of  the  Procope, 
where  he  would  sit  in  his  favorite  place  in  the  little 
rear  salon  at  Voltaire's  table.  This  little  salon,  in 
the  rear  of  the  cafe,  is  held  sacred,  for  its  chair  and 
table  are  the  ones  that  Voltaire  used  to  occupy. 
The  table  is  on  one  side  of  the  small  room.  On  the 
walls  are  many  interesting  sketches  in  oil  by  well- 
known  French  artists,  and  there  are  fine  ceiling 
decorations  ;  but  all  these  are  seen  with  difficulty, 
so  dim  is  the  light  in  the  room.  Since  Voltaire's 
time  this    table  has  become  an  object  of  curiosity 

and  veneration.     When  celebrated  habitues  of  the 

219 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

cafe  died  this  table  was  used  as  an  altar,  upon  which 
for  a  time  reposed  the  bust  of  the  decedent  before 
crepe-covered  lanterns. 

During  the  Revolution  Hebert  jumped  upon  this 
table,  which  had  been  placed  before  the  door  of  the 
cafe,  and  harangued  the  crowd  gathered  there,  ex- 
citing them  to  such  a  pitch  that  they  snatched  the 
newspapers  from  the  hands  of  the  news-venders.  In 
a  moment  of  passionate  appeal  he  brought  down  his 
heavy  boot-heel  upon  the  marble  with  such  force  as 
to  split  it. 

In  the  cafe  are  three  doors  that  are  decorated  in  a 
very  interesting  fashion.  On  the  panels  of  one,  well 
preserved  in  spite  of  the  numerous  transformations 
through  which  the  establishment  has  gone,  M.  Theo 
conceived  the  happy  idea  of  inscribing  in  gold  letters 
the  names  of  the  illustrious  who  have  visited  the 
cafe  since  its  founding.  Many  of  the  panels  of  the 
walls  are  taken  with  full-length  portraits  by  Thomas, 
representing,  among  others,  Voltaire,  Rousseau, 
Robespierre,  Diderot,  Danton  and  Marat  playing 
chess,  Mirabeau,  and  Gambetta.  There  are  smaller 
sketches  by  Corot,  d'Aubigny,  Vallon,  Courbet,  Wil- 
lette,  and  Roedel.  Some  of  them  are  not  fine  speci- 
mens of  art. 

M.  Theo  is  a  devoted  collector  of  rare  books  and 
engravings.  His  library,  which  contains  many  very 
rare  engravings  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  more 
than  one  book  of  priceless  value,  is  open  to  his  intimate 
friends  only,  with  whom  he  loves  to  ramble  through 
his  treasures  and  find  interesting  data  of  his  cafe. 


LE    MOULIN    DE   LA    GALETTE 


BISHOP  had  been  industriously  at  work  upon  a 
large  black-and-white  drawing.  The  subject 
was  a  ball-room  scene, — of  evident  low  de- 
gree, judging  from  the  abandon  of  the  whirling 
figures  and  the  queer  types  that  were 
depicted.  White  lace  skirts  were  sweep- 
ing high  in  air,  revealing  black- stockinged 
ankles  and  gauzy  lingerie  in  a  way  un- 
known to  the  monde  propre.  In  contrast 
to  the  grace  and  abandon  of  the  female 
figures  were  the  coarseness  and  clumsi- 
ness of  their  male  partners. 

The  work  was  nearly  finished,  but 
Bishop  professed  to  be  dissatisfied  with 
the  foreground  architecture  and  with  the 
drawing  of  a  hand  belonging  to  one  of 
the  male  dancers.  After  boringr  me  at 
length  with  a  speech  on  the  necessity  of 
having  a  model  for  that  hand,  he  sheep- 
ishly asked  me  if  I  would  pose  for  the 
elusive  member.  It  was  then  that  curi- 
osity prompted  me  to  inquire  where  he  had  found 
the  original  of  this  remarkable  scene. 

"  Mon  enfant  sculpteur."  he  replied,  with  the  pat 
ronizing   air  of  a  man  of  the  world, 
Moulin  de  la  Galette." 


ONE   OF   THE 
TYPES 


this   is  the 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

"And  where  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"  I  will  show  you  to-morrow  night,  if  you  agree." 

To-morrow  would  be  Sunday.  When  it  had  passed 
and  the  evening  was  come,  and  after  we  had  enjoyed 
two  courses  of  Madame  Darblay's  juicy  gigots  and  ir- 
resistible beans,  with  the  incomparable  sauce  afforded 
by  the  presence  of  the  sunny  actresses  who  were 
there,  we  walked  over  to  the  Boulevard  St.-Jacques 
and  waited  for  the  Montmartre  'bus  to  come  along. 
These  small,  ancient  omnibuses  are  different  from 
the  other  vehicles  of  that  breed  in  Paris,  in  that  in- 
stead of  having  a  narrow  curved  stairway  at  the  rear 
leading  up  to  the  imperiale,  there  are  but  three  or 
four  iron  foot-rests  against  the  outside  of  the  rear 
wall,  with  an  iron  rod  on  either  side  to  cling  to  in 
mounting.  Now,  the  traveller  who  would  reach  the 
imperiale  must  be  something  of  either  an  acrobat  or 
a  sailor,  because,  first,  as  these  'buses  do  not  stop,  a 
running  leap  has  to  be  made  for  the  ladder,  and, 
second,  because  of  the  pitching  and  rolling  of  the 
lumbering  vehicle,  the  catching  and  climbing  are  not 
easy.  If  you  carry  a  cane  or  a  parcel,  it  must  be 
held  in  the  teeth  until  the  ascent  is  made,  for  both 
hands  have  all  they  can  do  in  the  ladder  exercise. 

The  gleam  of  the  red  lamp  coming  down  the  street 
prepared  us  for  a  test  of  our  agility.  As  only  one 
could  mount  the  ladder  at  a  time,  and  as  I  was  the 
first  to  attack  the  feat,  Bishop  had  to  run  behind  for 
nearly  a  block  before  I  could  give  him  the  right  of 
way  up  the  ladder.  The  conductor  registered  deux 
sur  I'imperiale  as  we  swung  to  the  top  and  took  seats 


LE   MOULIN   DE   LA   GALETTE 

forward,  just  behind  the  driver.  Ladies  and  fat  gen- 
tlemen are  rarely,  or  never,  found  riding  on  the 
imperiale  of  the  Montmartre  line. 

We  wrapped  up  in  our  big  warm  coats  and  lay 
back  smoking  three-sous  cigars  (always  three-sous 
ones  on  Sunday),  and  as  the  driver  cracked  his  whip 
and  the  heavy  machine  went  rolling  along,  we  enjoyed 
the  wonderful  treat  of  seeing  gay  Paris  of  a  Sunday 
night  from  the  top  of  an  omnibus.  There  is  hardly 
anything  more  delightful,  particularly  from  the  top 
of  a  St.  Jacques-Montmartre  'bus,  which  generally 
avoids  the  broad,  brilliant  streets  and  goes  rolling 
and  swaying  through  the  narrow,  crooked  streets  of 
old  Paris.  Here  there  is  hardly  room  for  such  a 
vehicle  to  pass,  and  one  is  anxious  lest  one's  feet 
sweep  off  the  gas-lamps  that  fly  past.  An  intimate 
view  of  the  domestic  life  of  Paris  presents  itself  like- 
wise, for,  being  on  a  level  with  the  second  story  win- 
dows, you  have  flitting  visions  of  the  Parisian  menage 
in  all  its  freedom  and  variety.  At  this  time  of  the 
evening  the  windows  are  wide  open  and  the  dinner- 
tables  are  spread  near  them,  for  a  view  of  the  street 
below. 

On,  on  we  rumbled,  through  seemingly  intermina- 
ble miles  of  crooked  streets,  over  the  gay  Boul' 
Mich',  and  the  Place  St.-Michel ;  across  the  river, 
which  reflected  the  myriads  of  lights  along  its  walls 
and  bridges  ;  past  the  Halles,  the  greatest  market- 
place in  the  world  ;  past  the  grand  boulevards,  a 
confusing  glitter  of  colors  and  lights  ;  past  the  Folies- 

Bergere,  where  flaming  posters  announced  Loie  Ful- 

223 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

ler  in  the  throes  of  a  fire  dance  ;  and  at  last  to  the 
steep  grade  of  Montmartre.  Here  a  third  horse  was 
added  to  the  pair,  and  slowly  we  were  dragged  up 
the  slope. 

At  the  Boulevard  Clichy  we  suddenly  found  our- 
selves in  the  midst  of  a  terrific  uproar ;  bells,  steam- 
whistles,  hand-organs,  bands  of  music,  drums,  and 
calliopes  made  the  bedlam.  The  streets  were  blocked 
with  moving  masses  of  laughing  people,  and  the 
scene  was  gayly  illuminated  by  rows  of  lamps  over- 
head and  on  hundreds  of  stands,  merry-go-rounds, 
theatres,  circuses,  museums,  and  all  kinds  of  catch- 
penny attractions  that  lined  the  boulevard.  For  this 
was  the  Fete  de  Clichy.  Far  down  the  street,  almost 
hidden  by  a  curve,  could  be  seen  the  illuminated 
arms  of  the  Moulin  Rouge  slowly  revolving  through 
the  night. 

Still  on  and  up  crawled  the  'bus,  now  in  the  very 
heart  of  Montmartre,  through  the  lively,  crowded, 
bright  streets  on  the  great  hill  of  Paris.  Here  are 
hot-chestnut  venders  at  the  corners ;  fried-potato 
women,  serving  crisp  brown  chips  ;  street  hawkers, 
with  their  heavy  push-carts  ;  song-sellers,  singing  the 
songs  that  they  sell,  to  make  purchasers  familiar  with 
the  airs  ;  flower-girls  ;  gaudy  shops  ;  bright  restau- 
rants and  noisy  cafes, — all  constituting  that  distinctive 
quarter  of  Paris,  Montmartre. 

At  last  the  summit  of  the  hill  was  made,  and  the 

panting  horses  must  have  been  glad  that  it  was  all 

down-hill  ahead.     Bishop  gave  the  signal  to  alight 

a  block  before  the  desired  street  was  reached,  for  by 

224 


LE   MOULIN   DE    LA   GALETTE 

the  time  we  could  touch  the  ground  the  'bus  had 
covered  that  distance  on  the  down  run.  Bishop  led 
the  way  up  a  dim  little  street, — the  Rue  Muller,  I 
noticed  on  the  wall.  It  was  very  steep,  and  at  last 
ended  at  the  bottom  of  a  flight  of  stone  steps  that 
seemed  to  run  into  the  sky.  Their  length  was 
marked  by  lamps  glowing  one  above  another  in  long 
rows.     It  was  hard  work  climbing  to  the  top. 

The  top  at  last !  We  seemed  to  be  among  the 
clouds.  Far  below  us  lay  the  great  shining  city, 
spreading  away  into  distance  ;  and  although  it  was 
night,  the  light  of  a  full  moon  and  untold  thousands 
of  lamps  in  the  streets  and  buildings  below  enabled 
us  easily  to  pick  out  the  great  thoroughfares  and  the 
more  familiar  structures.  There  was  the  Opera, 
there  the  Pantheon,  there  Notre-Dame,  there  St.- 
Sulpice,  there  the  Invalides,  and,  uplifted  to  emulate 
the  eminence  on  which  we  stood,  the  Tour  Eiffel,  its 
revolving  searchlight  at  the  apex  shining  like  an  im- 
mense meteor  or  comet  with  its  misty  trail  stretching 
out  over  the  city.  The  roar  of  life  faintly  reached 
our  ears  from  the  vast  throbbing  plain,  where  millions 
of  human  mysteries  were  acting  out  their  tragedies. 
The  scene  was  vast,  wonderful,  entrancing. 

Far  above  us  still  a  maze  of  rafters,  beams,  and 
scaffolding  fretted  the  sky, — the  skeleton  of  that 
beautiful  but  unfinished  Church  of  the  Sacre-Cceur, 
crowning  the  very  summit  of  Montmartre. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  life  here,  for  not  a  soul  did 
we  meet,  and  not  a  light  shone  except  that  of  the 
moon.  Bishop  guided  me  through  a  maze  of  steep 
15  22s 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

stony  passages,  between  the  walls  of  dark  gardens, 
turning  now  to  the  right,  again  to  the  left,  through 
archways  and  courts  ;  and  I  wondered  how  he  could 
remember  them  all.  Before  I  could  fully  comprehend 
our  position  we  were  confronted  by  two  black,  gaunt, 
uncanny  objects  with  long  outstretched  arms  that  cut 
across  the  sky  like  giant  skeleton  sentinels  forbidding 
our  farther  advance.  But  the  sounds  of  lively  music 
and  the  glow  of  rows  of  white-globed  lamps  quickly 
banished  the  illusion  and  advertised  the  fact  that  we 
were  in  a  very  material  and  sensual  world,  for  they 
announced  the  Moulin  de  la  Galette  at  the  foot  of  the 
passage.  The  spectres  against  the  sky  were  only 
very,  very  old  windmills,  relics  of  the  time,  three 
centuries  gone,  when  windmills  crowded  the  summit 
of  Montmartre  to  catch  all  the  winds  that  blew. 
Now  they  stand,  stark,  dead,  silent,  and  decaying  ; 
their  stately  revolutions  are  no  more  ;  and  the  skele- 
ton frames  of  their  fans  look  down  on  a  marvellous 
contrast,  the  intensely  real  life  of  the  Galette. 

We  fell  in  line  with  many  others  at  the  ticket  office, 
and  paid  the  fifty  centimes  admission  fee  (ladies 
twenty-five  centimes).  We  were  relieved  of  our  hats 
and  canes  by  a  stout  old  woman  in  the  vestiaire,  who 
claimed  two  sous  from  each.  Following  the  up-hill 
passage  of  the  entrance,  the  walls  of  which  are 
painted  with  flowers  and  garden  scenes,  we  entered 
the  great  ball-room.  What  a  brilliant  scene  of  life 
and  light ! — at  first  a  blur  of  sound,  light,  and  move- 
ment, then  gradually  resolving  into  the  simple  ele- 
ments composing  it.     The  floor  was  covered  with 

226 


LE  MOULIN    DE   LA   GALETTE 


LE   MOULIN   DE   LA   GALETTE 

dancers,  and  the  girls  were  making  a  generous  dis- 
play of  graceful  anatomy.  A  large  band  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  room,  on  an  inclined  stand,  was  the 
vortex  of  the  din.  The  promenade  encircling  the 
hall  was  crowded  with  hatless  laughing  girls  and 
smooth-faced  boys  wearing  caps  or  flat-brimmed  low- 
crowned  hats  ;  their  trousers  fitted  tight  at  the  knees, 
and  their  heads  were  closely  cropped.  These  were 
strolling  in  groups,  or  watching  the  dancers,  or  sit- 
ting at  the  rows  of  wooden  tables  drinking.  All 
within  the  vast  hall  had  gone  to  enjoy  their  Sunday 
night  as  much  as  possible.  To  most  of  the  girls  this 
was  the  one  night  in  the  week  when,  not  tired  out 
from  the  drudgery  of  hard  work,  they  could  throw 
aside  all  cares  and  live  in  the  way  for  which  their 
cramped  and  meagre  souls  yearned.  This  is  a  ren- 
dezvous for  the  humble  workers  of  the  city,  where 
they  may  dress  as  best  they  can,  exchange  their 
petites  histoires,  and  abandon  themselves  to  the 
luxury  of  the  dance  ;  for  they  are  mostly  shop-girls, 
and  blanchisseuses,  and  the  like,  who,  when  work 
fails  them,  have  to  hover  about  the  dark  streets  at 
night,  that  prosperous-looking  passers-by  may  be 
tempted  by  the  pleading  of  their  dark  saucy  eyes,  or 
be  lured  by  them  to  some  quiet  spot  where  their 
lovers  lie  in  wait  with  a  lithe  and  competent  black 
slung-shot.  No  mercy  for  the  hapless  bourgeois 
then  !  For  the  dear  Henris  and  Jacques  and  Louises 
must  have  their  sous  for  the  comforts  of  life,  as  well 
as  the  necessities,  and  such  luxuries  as  tobacco  and 
drink  must  be  considered  ;  and  if  the  money  where- 

229 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

with  all  this  may  be  bought  is  not  produced  by  Mar- 
celle  or  Helene  or  Marie,  she  will  get  a  beating  for 
her  slothfulness  or  lack  of  skill,  and  will  be  driven 
into  the  street  with  a  hurting  back  to  try  again.  And 
so  Henri,  Jacques,  or  Louis  basks  in  the  sun,  and 
smokes  cigarettes  with  never  a  care,  except  that  of 
making  his  devoted  little  mistress  perform  her  duties, 
knowing  well  how  to  retain  her  affection  by  selfish- 
ness and  brutality. 

This  night,  however,  all  that  was  forgotten.  It 
was  the  one  free,  happy  night  of  the  week,  the  night 
of  abandon  and  the  dance,  of  laughter,  drinking,  and 
jollity,  for  which  one  and  all  had  longed  for  a  whole 
impatient  and  dreary  week  ;  and  Henri,  Jacques,  and 
Louis  could  spend  on  drinks  with  other  of  their  femi- 
nine acquaintances  the  sous  that  their  mistresses  had 
provided.  The  band  played  lustily  ;  the  lights  shone  ; 
the  room  was  filled  with  laughter, — let  the  dance 
go  on  ! 

Stationed  in  different  parts  of  the  room  were  the 
big  soldiers  of  the  Garde  Municipale,  in  their  pictu- 
resque uniform  so  familiar  to  all  the  theatre-goers  of 
Paris.  They  were  here  to  preserve  order,  for  the 
dancers  belong  to  an  inflammable  class,  and  a  blaze 
may  spring  up  at  any  moment.  Equally  valuable  as 
a  repressing  force  was  a  burly,  thick-necked,  power- 
ful man  who  strolled  hither  and  thither,  his  glance 
everywhere  and  always  veiling  a  threat.  He  wore  a 
large  badge  that  proclaimed  him  the  master  of  cere- 
monies.    True,  he  was  that,  which  was  something, 

but  he  was  a  great  deal  more, — a  most  astonishingly 

230 


LE   MOULIN   DE   LA   GALETTE 

prompt  and  capable  bouncer.  The  male  frequenters 
of  the  place  were  evidently  in  mortal  terror  of  him, 
for  his  commanding  size  and  threatening  manner,  and 
his  superbly  developed  muscles,  contrasted  strikingly 
with  the  cringing  manner  and  weak  bodies  of  Henri 
and  his  kind  ;  and  should  he  look  their  way  with  a 
momentary  steadiness  of  glance  and  poise  of  figure, 
their  conversation  would  instantly  cease,  and  they 
would  slink  away. 

We  seated  ourselves  at  a  vacant  table  that  com- 
manded a  sweeping  view  of  the  floor  and  the  prom- 
enade. A  seedy-looking  gargon  worked  his  way 
through  the  crowd  and  took  our  order  for  beer  ;  and 
mean,  stale  beer  it  was.  But  we  did  not  care  for 
that.  Bishop  was  all  afire  with  enjoyment  of  the 
scene,  for,  he  protested,  the  place  was  infinitely  rich 
in  types  and  character, — the  identical  types  that  the 
great  Steinlen  loves  to  draw.  And  here  is  an  inter- 
esting thing :  The  girls  all  were  of  that  chic  and 
petite  order  so  peculiar  to  certain  classes  of  Parisian 
women,  some  hardly  so  high  as  Bishop's  shoulder, 
which  is  itself  not  very  high  ;  and  though  they  looked 
so  small,  they  were  fully  developed  young  women, 
though  many  of  them  were  under  twenty.  They 
wore  no  hats,  and  for  the  most  part,  unlike  their  gor- 
geous sisters  of  the  boulevard  cafes,  they  were  dressed 
plainly,  wearing  black  or  colored  waists  and  skirts. 
But  ah  ! — and  here  the  unapproachable  instinct-skill 
of  the  French-woman  shows  itself, — on  these  same 
waists  and  skirts  were  placed  here  and  there,  but 
always  just  where  they  ought  to  be,  bows  and  rib- 

231 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

bons  ;  and  it  was  they  that  worked  the  miracle  of 
grace  and  style.  And  the  girls  had  a  certain  beauty, 
a  beauty  peculiar  to  their  class, — not  exactly  beauty, 
but  pleasing  features,  healthy  color,  and,  best  of  all 
and  explaining  all,  an  archness  of  expression,  a  touch 
of  sauciness,  that  did  for  their  faces  what  the  bows 
and  ribbons  did  for  their  gowns. 

Near  us  a  large  door  opened  into  the  garden  of 
the  Moulin  ;  it  was  filled  with  trees  and  benches  and 
tables,  and  amidst  the  dark  foliage  glowed  colored 
Chinese  lanterns,  which  sifted  a  soft  light  upon  the 
revellers  assembled  beneath  them  in  the  cool  evening 
air.  On  one  side  of  the  garden  stretched  Paris  far 
down  and  away,  and  on  the  other  side  blazed  the 
Moulin  de  la  Galette  through  the  windows. 

A  waltz  was  now  being  danced.  Strange  to  say,  it 
was  the  one  dismal  feature  of  the  evening,  and  that 
was  because  the  French  do  not  know  how  to  dance  it, 
"  reversing"  being  unknown.  And  there  was  an  odd 
variety  of  ways  in  which  the  men  held  their  partners 
and  the  dancers  each  other.  Some  grasped  each 
other  tightly  about  the  waist  with  both  arms,  or  sim- 
ilarly about  the  necks  or  shoulders,  and  looked 
straight  into  each  other's  face  without  a  smile  or  an 
occasional  word.  It  was  all  done  in  deadly  earnest, 
as  a  serious  work.  It  was  in  the  quadrille  that  the 
fun  came,  when  the  girls  varied  the  usual  order  by 
pointing  their  toes  toward  the  chandeliers  with  a 
swish  of  white  skirts  tnat  made  the  by-standers  cry, 
"  Encore,  Marcelle  !"     The  men,  yearning  for  a  share 

of  the  applause,  cut  up  all  sorts  of  antics  and  ca- 

232 


LE   MOULIN   DE   LA   GALETTE 

pers,  using  their  arms  and  legs  with  incredible  agil- 
ity, making  grotesque  faces,  and  wearing  hideous 
false  noses  and  piratical  moustaches. 

Securing  a  partner  for  a  dance  was  the  easiest 
thing  possible.  Any  girl  was  eligible, — simply  the 
asking,  the  assent,  and  away  they  went. 

Bishop's  pencil  kept  moving  rapidly  as  he  caught 
fleeting  notes  of  faces,  dresses,  attitudes — every- 
thing— for  his  unfinished  piece  at  the  studio.  A 
number  of  promenaders,  attracted  by  his  sketching, 
stopped  to  watch  him.  That  dance  was  now  finished, 
and  the  dancers  separated  wherever  they  stopped,  and 
turned  away  to  seek  their  separate  friends  ;  there  was 
no  waste  of  time  in  escorting  the  girls  to  seats,  for 
that  is  not  fashionable  at  Montmartre.  The  girls 
came  flocking  about  Bishop,  curious  over  his  work, 
and  completely  shut  out  his  view.  "  Oh  !"  exclaimed 
one  saucy  petite  blonde,  "let  me  see  my  portrait !  I 
saw  you  sketching  me  during  the  dance."  "  Et 
moi. — moi  aussi !"  cried  the  others,  until  Bishop, 
overwhelmed,  surrendered  his  book  for  the  inspec- 
tion of  bright,  eager  eyes. 

"  Has  not  monsieur  a  cigarette  ?"  archly  asked  a 
girl  with  a  decided  nez  retrousse.  "  Oui,"  I  answered, 
handing  her  a  packet,  from  which  with  exquisite,  un- 
conscious daintiness  she  selected  one.  The  whole 
bevy  then  made  a  similar  request,  and  we  were  soon 
enveloped  in  a  blue  haze. 

"Vousferez  mon  portrait,  n'est-ce-pas  ?"  begged  a 
dark-eyed  beauty  of  Bishop,  in  a  smooth,  pleasant 
voice.     She  had  a  striking  appearance.     A  mass  of 

235 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

rebellious  black  hair  strove  persistently  to  fall  over 
her  oval  face,  and  when  she  would  neglect  to  push 
it  back  her  eyes,  dark  and  melancholy,  shone  through 
its  tangle  with  a  singular  wild  lustre.  Her  skin  was 
dark,  almost  swarthy,  but  it  was  touched  with  a  fine 
rosy  glow  of  health  and  youth.  Her  features  were 
perfect ;  the  nose  was  slightly  romanesque,  the  chin 
firm,  the  lips  red  and  sensuous.  When  she  drew 
our  attention  with  her  request  she  was  standing  be- 
fore us  in  a  rigid,  half-defiant,  half-commanding 
posture;  but  when  she  quickly  added,  "I  will  pose 
for  you, — see?"  and  sat  down  beside  me,  opposite- 
Bishop,  her  striking  native  grace  asserted  itself,  for 
from  a  statue  of  bronze  she  suddenly  became  all 
warmth  and  softness,  every  line  in  her  perfect,  lithe 
figure  showing  her  eagerness,  and  eloquent  with 
coaxing. 

It  was  clear  that  Bishop  was  deeply  impressed  by 
the  striking  picture  that  she  made  ;  it  was  her  beau- 
tiful wild  head  that  fascinated  him  most. 

"No,  I  am  first,"  insisted  a  little  vixen,  hard- 
featured  and  determined.  "Jamais  de  la  vie!" 
"  C'est  moi !"  protested  others,  with  such  fire  that  I 
feared  there  would  be  trouble.  The  turmoil  had  the 
effect  of  withdrawing  Bishop's  attention  momentarily 
from  the  beautiful  tigress  beside  me.  He  smiled  in 
bewilderment.      He  would  be  happy  to  draw  them 

all,  but At  last  he  pacified  them  by  proposing 

to  take  them  in  turn,  provided  they  would  be   pa- 
tient and   not  bother  him.     To  this  they  poutingly 

agreed  ;   and  Bishop,   paying   no  more  attention  to 

236 


LE   MOULIN   DE   LA   GALETTE 

the  girl  beside  me,  rapidly  dashed  off  sketch  after 
sketch  of  the  other  girls.  Exclamations  of  surprise, 
delight,  or  indignation  greeted  each  of  the  portraits 
as  it  was  passed  round.  Bishop  was  seeking  "  char- 
acter," and  as  he  was  to  retain  the  portraits,  he 
made  no  efforts  at  flattery. 

All  this  time  the  dark-eyed  one  had  sat  in  perfect 
silence  and  stillness  beside  me,  watching  Bishop  in 
wonder.  She  had  forgotten  her  hair,  and  was  gazing 
through  it  with  more  than  her  eyes  as  his  pencil 
worked  rapidly.  I  studied  her  as  well  as  I  could  as 
she  sat  all  heedless  of  my  existence.  Her  lips 
slightly  curved  at  the  corners  into  a  faint  suggestion 
of  a  smile,  but  as  Bishop's  work  kept  on  and  the 
other  girls  monopolized  him,  the  lips  gradually  har- 
dened. The  shadow  of  her  chin  fell  upon  her  smooth 
throat,  not  darkening  it  too  much  for  me  to  observe 
that  significant  movements  within  it  indicated  a  strug- 
gle with  her  self-control.  Bishop  was  now  sketching 
a  girl,  the  others  having  run  off  to  dance  ;  they  would 
return  in  their  order.  The  girl  beside  me  said  to  me, 
in  a  low  voice,  without  looking  at  me, — 

"  Monsieur  est  Anglais  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"Ah!  Americain?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  your  friend?"  nodding  toward  Bishop. 

"  American  also." 

"Is  he "  but   she   suddenly  checked   herself 

with  odd  abruptness,  and  then  quickly  asked,  with  a 
shallow  pretence  of  eager  interest,  "Is  America  far 

237 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

from  Paris  ?"  And  so  she  continued  to  quiz  me 
rather  vacantly  concerning  a  great  country  of  whose 
whereabouts  she  had  not  the  slightest  idea.  Then 
she  was  silent,  and  I  imagined  that  she  was  gather- 
ing herself  for  some  supreme  effort.  Suddenly  she 
turned  her  marvellous  eyes  full  toward  me,  swept  the 
wild  hair  from  her  face,  looked  almost  fiercely  at  me 
a  moment,  and,  riaid  from  head  to  foot,  asked,  half 
angrily,  and  then  held  her  breath  for  the  answer, — 

"  Is  he  married  ?" 

The  question  was  asked  so  suddenly  and  so 
strangely,  and  with  so  commanding  a  manner,  that  I 
had  not  a  moment  to  consider  the  wisdom  of  lying. 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

She  sank  back  into  her  chair  with  a  deep  breath, 
all  softness  and  grace  again,  and  her  wild  hair  fell 
back  over  her  face. 

She  had  lost  all  interest  in  the  ball.  While  her 
companions  were  enjoying  themselves  in  the  dance, 
she  sat  motionless  and  silent  beside  me,  watching 
Bishop.  An  uncomfortable  feeling  had  taken  pos- 
session of  me.  Presently  I  abruptly  asked  her  why 
she  did  not  dance. 

She  started.  "  Dance?"  she  replied.  She  looked 
ov^er  the  hall,  and  an  expression  of  scorn  and  disgust 
came  into  her  face.  '•  Not  with  that  espece  de  voy- 
ous,"  she  vehemently  added  ;  and  then  she  turned 
to  watch  Bishop  again. 

I  now  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  a  group  of  the 
human  vampires,  standing  apart  at  a  little  distance, 
were  watching  us  closely  and  talking  in  low  tones 

238 


LE   MOULIN   DE   LA    GALETTE 

among  themselves.  My  attention  had  been  drawn 
to  them  by  a  defiant  look  that  the  girl  had  shot  at 
them.  One  of  them  was  particularly  repulsive.  He 
was  rather  larger  and  stronger  than  the  others.  His 
garb  was  that  of  his  species, — tight  trousers,  a  ne- 
glige shirt,  and  a  rakish  cap  being  its  distinguishing 
articles.  He  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
his  head  thrust  forward.  He  had  the  low,  brutal  face 
of  his  kind.     It  was  now  pale  with  rage. 

I  asked  the  girl  what  her  name  was. 

"  Helene,"  she  answered,  simply. 

Her  other  name  ? 

Oh,  just  Helene.  Sometimes  it  was  Helene  Cres- 
pin,  for  Crespin  was  her  lover's  name.  All  this  with 
perfect  frankness. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  I  asked. 

"  C'est  lui  avec  la  casquette,"  she  answered,  indi- 
cating the  brute  whom  I  have  just  described,  but  I 
had  expected  that.  "  I  hate  him  now  !"  she  vehe- 
mently added. 

No,  she  had  neither  father  nor  mother ;  had  no 
recollection  of  parents.  Sometimes  she  worked  in 
a  printing  shop  in  the  Rue  Victor  Masse  when  extra 
hands  were  needed. 

After  the  girl  who  had  been  posing  was  dismissed 
another  took  her  place  ;  then  another,  and  another, 
and  others  ;  and  still  others  were  waiting.  The  girl 
beside  me  had  been  watching  these  proceedings  with 
increasing  impatience.  Some  of  the  girls  were  so 
delighted  that  they  threw  their  arms  round  Bishop's 
neck  and  kissed  him.     Others  called  him  endearing 

239 


■      BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

names.  At  last  it  was  evident  that  the  dark  girl 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  had  been  growing 
harder  and  harder,  more  and  more  restless.  I  con- 
tinued to  watch  her  narrowly, — she  had  forgotten  my 
existence.  Gradually  the  natural  rich  color  in  her 
cheeks  deepened,  her  eyes  blazed  through  the  tangled 
hair,  her  lips  were  set.  Suddenly,  after  a  girl  had 
been  more  demonstrative  than  the  others,  she  rose 
and  confronted  Bishop.  All  this  time  he  had  not 
even  looked  at  her,  and  that,  while  making  me 
uneasy,  had  made  her  furious. 

We  three  were  alone.  True,  we  were  observed 
by  many,  for  invasions  by  foreigners  were  very  rare 
at  the  Moulin  de  la  Galette,  and  we  were  objects  of 
interest  on  that  account ;  and  the  sketching  by 
Bishop  had  sent  our  fame  throughout  the  hall. 

In  a  low,  quiet  voice  the  girl  said  to  Bishop,  as  he 
looked  up  at  her  wonderingly, — 

"  You  promised  to  draw  mine  long  ago." 

I  had  never  seen  my  friend  more  embarrassed 
than  he  was  at  that  moment.  He  stumbled  over 
his  excuses,  and  then  asked  her  to  pose  to  suit  her 
fancy.  He  did  it  very  gently,  and  the  effect  was 
magical.  She  sank  into  her  chair  and  assumed  the 
indolently  graceful  pose  that  she  had  unconsciously 
taken  when  she  first  seated  herself.  Bishop  gazed 
at  her  in  silence  a  long  time  before  he  began  the 
sketch ;  and  then  he  worked  with  a  sure  and 
rapid  hand.  After  it  was  finished  he  handed  it  to 
her.  Instantly  she  was  transfigured.  She  stared 
at  the  picture  in  wonder  and  delight,  her  lips  parted, 

240 


LE   MOULIN  DE   LA   GALETTE 

her  chest  hardly  moving  from  her  nearly  suppressed 
breathing. 

"Do  I  look  like  that?"  she  asked,  suspiciously. 
Indeed,  it  was  an  exquisite  little  piece  of  work,  for 
Bishop  had  idealized  the  girl  and  made  a  beautiful 
portrait. 

"  Did  you  not  see  me  draw  it  while  looking  at 
you  ?"  he  replied,  somewhat  disingenuously. 

"Will  you  give  it  to  me?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Certainly." 

"And  will  you  sign  your  name  to  it?" 

Bishop  cheerfully  complied.  Then  she  took  it, 
kissed  it,  and  pressed  it  to  her  bosom  ;  and  then, 
leaning  forward,  and  speaking  with  a  richness  and 
depth  of  voice  that  she  had  not  betrayed  before,  and 
in  the  deepest  earnestness,  said, — 

"  Je  vous  aime  !" 

Bishop,  staggered  by  this  forthright  declaration  of 
affection,  blushed  violently  and  looked  very  foolish. 
But  he  rallied  and  assured  her  that  her  love  was  re- 
ciprocated, for  who,  he  asked,  could  resist  so  beauti- 
ful a  face,  so  warm  a  heart  ?  If  he  had  only  known, 
if  I  could  only  have  told  him  !  The  girl  sank  back 
in  her  chair  with  a  quizzical,  doubting  smile  that 
showed  perfect  white  teeth  and  changed  to  bright 
dimples  the  suggestion  of  a  smile  that  fluttered  at 
her  mouth-corners.  She  carefully  folded  the  sketch 
and  daintily  tucked  it  away  in  her  bosom. 

Bishop  had  now  quitted  work, — Helene  had  seen 
to  that.  She  had  moved  her  chair  close  to  his,  and, 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  was  rattling  away 
ifi  241 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

'.n  the  untranslatable  argfot  of  Montmartre.  It  is  not 
the  argot  of  the  slums,  nor  that  of  the  thieves,  nor 
that  of  the  students,  but  that  of  Montmartre  ;  and 
there  are  no  ways  of  expressing  it  intelligibly  in 
English.  Presently  she  became  more  serious,  and 
with  all  the  coaxing  and  pleading  of  which  her  ardent, 
impetuous  nature  was  capable,  she  begged, — 

"  Let  me  be  your  model.  Je  suis  bien  faite,  and 
you  can  teach  me  to  pose.  You  will  be  kind  to  me. 
I  have  a  good  figure.  I  will  do  everything,  every- 
thing for  you  !  I  will  take  care  of  the  studio.  I  will 
cook,  I  will  bring  you  everything,  everything  you 
want.  You  will  let  me  live  with  you.  I  will  love  no 
one  else.     You  will  never  be  sorry  nor  ashamed.    If 

you  will  only "     That  is  the  best  translation  I 

can  give  ;  it  is  certainly  what  she  meant,  though  it 
indicates  nothing  of  the  impetuosity,  the  abandon, 
the  eagerness,  the  warmth,  the  savage  beauty  that 
shone  from  her  as  she  spoke. 

Bishop  rose  to  the  occasion.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet.  "  I  must  dance  after  that !"  he  exclaimed, 
catching  her  up,  laughing,  and  dragging  her  upon 
the  floor.  He  could  dance  superbly.  A  waltz  was 
being  played,  and  it  was  being  danced  in  the  stiff 
and  stupid  way  of  the  people.  Very  soon  Bishop 
and  Helene  began  to  attract  general  attention,  for 
never  before  had  Montmartre  seen  a  waltz  danced 
like  that.  He  reversed,  and  glided,  and  threw  into 
the  queen  of  dances  all  the  grace  and  freedom  that 
it  demands.  At  first  Helene  was  puzzled  and  be- 
wildered ;  but  she  was  agile  both  of  mind  and  body, 

242 


LE   MOULIN   DE   LA   GALETTE 

and  under  Bishop's  sure  guidance  she  put  them  to 
excellent  use.  Rapidly  she  caught  the  grace  and 
spirit  of  the  waltz,  and  danced  with  a  verve  that 
she  had  never  known  before.  Swiftly  and  gracefully 
they  skimmed  the  length  of  the  great  hall,  then  back, 
and  wherever  they  went  the  dancers  watched  them 
with  astonishment  and  delight,  and  gradually  aban- 
doned their  own  ungraceful  efforts,  partly  in  shame, 
partly  in  admiration,  and  partly  with  a  desire  to  learn 
how  the  miracle  was  done.  Gradually  the  floor  was 
wholly  abandoned  except  for  these  two,  and  all  eyes 
watched  them,  Helene  was  happy  and  radiant  be- 
yond all  ways  of  telling.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
her  eyes  sparkled,  her  lithe  figure  developed  all  the 
ease,  grace,  and  suppleness  of  a  cat. 

Some  muttered  expressions  of  contempt  spoken 
near  me  caused  me  to  listen  without  turning  round. 
They  were  meant  for  my  ears,  but  I  gave  no  heed. 
I  knew  well  enough  from  whom  they  came, — Crespin 
and  his  friends.  And  I  realized  that  we  were  in  for 
it.  True,  there  were  the  big  guards  and  there  was 
the  capable  bouncer,  and  they  would  glance  my  way 
now  and  then,  seemingly  to  let  Crespin  know  that 
all  was  understood  and  that  it  must  be  hands  off 
with  him.  There  was  no  danger  here,  but  after- 
wards  

The  waltz  came  to  an  end,  and  the  two  were  vig- 
orously applauded.  This  was  a  critical  moment,  but 
Bishop  handled  it  adroitly.  He  conducted  Helene 
to  a  seat  remote  from  our  table,  bowed  low,  and  left 
her,  and  came  over  to  me.     I  told  him  of  my  fears, 

243 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


but  he  laughed.  He  had  got  rid  of  Helene  with 
perfect  address,  and  perhaps  she  was  nursing  an 
angry  and  aching  heart  after  her  glorious  triumph  ; 
perhaps  Bishop  had  whispered  to  her  something  of 
the  danger  and  suggested  that  they  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  each  other  that  evening.  Presently 
I  saw  her  start  and  look  round.  Crespin  was  behind 
her.  livid  with  rage.  She  promptly  rose  and  followed 
him  into  the  garden.  Bishop  had 
not  seen  the  movement.  We 
were  near  the  door  leading  into 
the  garden,  and 
by  turning  a  little 
I  could  see  the 
couple  outside, 
not  far  away. 
Crespin  was 
standing  with 
a  bullying  air, 
and  was  evident- 
ly cursing  her. 
She  had  tossed 
back  her  hair  and 
was  looking  him 
defiantly  in  the  face.  I  saw  her  lips  move  in  speech. 
Instantly  the  ruffian  dealt  her  a  violent  blow  upon 
the  chest,  and  she  staggered  back  against  a  tree, 
which  prevented  her  falling. 

"  Come,    let    us    stop   that,"    I    said    to    Bishop. 
"  Helene's    lover   is   beating   her   in    the   garden." 

Bishop  sprang  to  his  feet  and  followed  me.     As  he 

244 


IN   THE  GARDEN 


LE   MOULIN    DE   LA   GALETTE 

glanced  out  the  window  at  the  couple,  whom  I  pointed 
out,  he  saw  Crespin  approach  the  dazed  girl  and  deal 
her  a  terrible  blow  in  the  mouth,  and  he  saw  the 
blood  that  followed  the  blow. 

We  arrived  in  the  garden  as  a  crowd  was  gather- 
ing. Bishop  pushed  his  way  ahead  and  was  about 
to  spring  upon  the  brute,  when  Helene  saw  him. 
With  a  supreme  effort  she  leaped  forward,  thrust 
Bishop  aside  with  a  command  to  mind  his  own  af- 
fairs, threw  herself  into  her  lover's  arms,  and  kissed 
him,  smearing  his  face  with  her  blood.  He  glared  at 
us,  triumphant.  The  guards  arrived,  and  Helene 
and  her  lover  disappeared  among  the  trees  in  the 
darkness. 

"  Oh,  another  unfaithful  cocotte !"  laughed  one  in 
the  crowd,  explaining  to  the  guards  ;  and  they  re- 
turned to  their  drinking  and  dancing,  remarking, 
"  Beat  a  woman,  and  she  will  love  you." 

They  had  all  missed  the  heroism  and  devotion  of 
Helene's  interference.  It  was  to  keep  a  knife  out  of 
the  body  of  the  man  she  loved  that  she  smeared  her 
lover's  face  with  her  blood.     We  saw  her  no  more. 

We  returned  to  the  hall  and  strolled  round  the 
promenade,  for  we  needed  that  to  become  calm 
again.  And  the  girls  mobbed  Bishop,  for  he  had 
passed  out  the  word  that  he  wanted  a  model,  and 
that  he  would  pay  a  franc  an  hour.  A  franc  an 
hour !  And  so  they  mobbed  him.  Was  not  that 
more  than  they  could  hope  to  earn  by  a  whole  day's 
hard  work  ?  Yes,  they  would  all  pose  gladly,  but 
only  in  costume,  bien  entendu  !     So  Bishop  was  busy 

245 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

taking  down  the  names  of  Marcelle,  Lorette,  Elise, 
Marie,  and  the  rest,  with  the  names  of  the  queer  and 
unheard-of  streets  in  which  they  lived,  mostly  in  the 
quarters  of  Montmartre  and  the  Batignolles. 

The  can-can  was  now  raging  on  the  floor,  and  the 
tired  gar^ons  were  dodging  about  with  their  glass- 
laden  trays.  Dancing,  making  love,  throwing  lumps 
of  sugar,  the  revellers  enjoyed  themselves. 

We  left.  The  moon  cast  gaunt  shadows  across 
the  streets  from  the  old  windmills  and  the  trees.  We 
struck  out  briskly,  intending  to  catch  the  last  St- 
Jacques  'bus  home,  and  with  that  purpose  we 
threaded  the  maze  of  steep  passages  and  streets  on 
our  way  to  the  Rue  Muller.  Upon  reaching  the  top 
of  the  hill,  behind  the  great  skeleton  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  where  all  was  silent  and  still  as  the  grave,  we 
suddenly  discovered  the  shadowy  figures  of  men 
slipping  out  from  a  dark  little  street.  We  knew 
what  it  meant.  With  a  common  impulse  we  sprang 
forward,  for  it  was  now  a  run  for  our  lives.  I  had 
recognized  Crespin  in  the  lead.  With  headlong 
speed  we  dashed  down  the  steep  incline,  swinging 
our  canes  to  check  an  attack  in  the  rear.  We  had 
dodged  out  of  our  proper  way  to  the  Rue  Muller, 
and  now  it  was  a  matter  of  speed,  endurance,  and 
luck  to  reach  blindly  some  street  where  life  and  pro- 
tection might  be  found. 

A  man  clutched  my  coat.  I  beat  him  off  with  my 
stick,  but  the  skirt  of  my  coat  was  hanging  loose, 
nearly  ripped  off.  A  cord  went  whizzing  past  me 
and  caught  Bishop's  hat,   but  he  went  sturdily  on 

246 


LE    MOULIN    DE   LA   GALETTE 

bareheaded.  Stones  flew  past  us,  and  presently  one 
caught  me  a  terrific,  sickening  blow  in  the  back.  1 
did  not  fall,  but  I  staggered  in  my  flight,  for  a  strange 
heaviness  came  into  my  legs,  and  my  head  soon 
began  to  ache  violently. 

Crespin  was  desperately  active.  I  could  hear  him 
panting  heavily  as  he  gained  upon  us.  His  long 
shadow,  cast  by  the  moon,  showed  that  he  was  about 
to  spring  upon  Bishop.  I  swung  my  cane  blindly, 
but  with  all  my  might,  and  it  fell  upon  his  head  and 
laid  him  low  ;  but  he  quickly  scrambled  to  his  feet 
again.  The  ruffians  were  now  upon  us, — they  were 
better  used  to  the  hill  than  we. 

"Separate!"  gasped  Bishop,  "It  is  our  only 
chance."  At  the  next  corner  we  suddenly  swung 
apart,  taking  opposite  directions.  I  plunged  on 
alone,  glad  to  hear  for  a  time  that  footfalls  were  fol- 
lowing,— they  meant  that  the  pursuit  had  not  con- 
centrated on  Bishop.  But  after  a  while  I  realized 
that  I  was  no  longer  pursued.  I  stopped  and  lis- 
tened. There  was  no  sound.  Weak  and  trembling, 
with  an  aching  back  and  a  splitting  head,  I  sat  down 
in  a  door-way  and  rested.  That  luxury  was  quickly 
interrupted  by  my  reflecting  that  possibly  Bishop  had 
been  overtaken  ;  and  I  knew  what  that  would  mean. 
I  ran  back  up  the  hill  as  rapidly  as  my  weakness  and 
trembling  and  pain  permitted.  At  last  I  found  my- 
self at  the  corner  where  we  had  separated.  There 
was  no  sound  from  any  direction.  I  could  only  hope 
for  the  best  and   search  and  listen  blindly  through 

this  puzzle  of  streets  and  passages. 

247 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


Presently  I  realized  that  I  was  near  the  fortifi- 
cations of  Paris,  close  to  St.  Ouen, — that  is  to  say, 
at  the  other  end  of  Paris  from  the  Quartier  Latin, 
which  was  eight  miles  away.  There  was  noihing 
to  do  but  walk  home.  It  was  nearly  four  o'clock 
when  I  arrived.  And  there  was  Bishop  in  bed, 
nursing  a  big  lump  on  his  head,  made  by  a  flying 
stone.  He  had  reached  a  street  where  a  gendarme 
was,  and  that  meant  safety  ;  and  then  he  had  taken 
a  cab  for  home,  where  he  was  looking  very  ridicu- 
lous poulticing  his  lump  and  making  himself  sick 
fretting  about  me. 


THE   PROPRIETOR 


NEAR  the  end  of  a  recent  December  Bishop 
received  a  note  signed  "  A.  Herbert  Thomp- 
kins,"  written  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Athenee, 
saying  that  the  writer  was  in  Paris  for  four  days 
with  his  wife  before  proceeding  to  Vienna  to  join 
some  friends.  It  closed  by  asking,  "  Could  you  call 
at  the  hotel  this  evening,  say  at  seven  ?" 

This  note  created  great  excitement  at  our  studio 
early  one  morning,  the  facteur  having  climbed  six 
flights  of  stairs  (it  being  near  to  New  Year)  to  de- 
liver it  ;  for  Mr.  Thompkins  was  one  of  Bishop's 
warmest  friends  in  America.  His  unexpected  arrival 
in  Paris  at  this  unseasonable  time  of  the  year  was 
indeed  a  surprise,  but  a  most  agreeable  one.  So 
Bishop  spent  the  whole  of  the  afternoon  in  creasing 

his  best  trousers,  ransacking  our  trunks  for  a  clean 

249 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

collar  to  wear  with  my  blue-fronted  shirt,  polishing 
his  top-hat,  and  getting  his  Velasquez  whiskers 
trimmed  and  perfumed  at  the  coiffeur's.  It  was  not 
every  day  that  friends  of  Mr.  Thompkins's  type  made 
their  appearance  in  Paris. 

Bishop,  after  hours  spent  in  absorbing  mental 
work,  at  last  disclosed  his  plan  to  me.  Of  course 
he  would  not  permit  me  to  keep  out  of  the  party, 
and  besides,  he  needed  my  advice.     Here  was  Mr. 


TOURISTS   AND  GUIDE   IN   PARIS 


Thompkins  in  Paris,  and  unless  he  were  wisely 
guided  he  would  leave  without  seeing  the  city, — ex- 
cept those  parts  and  phases  of  it  that  tourists  cannot 
keep  from  stumbling  over.     It  would  be  both  a  duty 

2150 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 

and  a  pleasure  to  introduce  him  to  certain  things  of 
which  he  might  otherwise  die  in  ignorance,  to  the 
eternal  undevelopment  of  his  soul.  But  here  was  the 
rub  :  Would  Mr,  Thompkins  care  to  be  so  radically 
different  here  for  one  night — just  one  night — from 
what  he  was  at  home  ?  I  could  not  see  how  any  harm 
could  come  to  Mr.  Thompkins  or  any  one  else  with 
sense,  nor  how  Bishop  could  possibly  entertain  him  in 
anyway  that  would  be  disagreeable  to  a  man  of  brains. 
But  Bishop  was  evidently  keeping  something  back. 
For  that  matter,  he  never  did  explain  it,  and  I  have 
not  bothered  about  inferences.  What  Mr.  Thomp- 
kins was  at  home  I  do  not  know.  True,  he  was  very 
much  confused  and  embarrassed  a  number  of  times 
during  the  evening,  but  one  thing  I  know, — he  en- 
joyed himself  immensely.  And  that  makes  me  say 
that  no  matter  what  he  was  at  home,  he  was  a  gen- 
tleman and  philosopher  while  exploring  an  outlandish 
phase  of  Parisian  Bohemian  life  that  night  under  our 
guidance.  He  had  a  prim,  precise  way  of  talking, 
and  was  delightfully  innocent  and  unworldly.  My  ! 
it  would  have  been  a  sin  for  him  to  miss  what  he  saw 
that  night.  So  I  told  Bishop  very  emphatically  that 
no  matter  what  Mr.  Thompkins  was  at  home,  nobody 
who  knew  him  was  likely  to  see  him  in  Paris  at  that 
time  of  the  year,  and  that  it  was  Bishop's  duty  as  a 
friend  to  initiate  him.  Bishop  was  very  happy  over 
my  advice  ;  but  when  he  insisted  that  we  should  take 
a  cab  for  the  evening's  outing,  I  sternly  reminded 
him  of  the  bruises  that  our  funds  would  receive  on 
New  Year's,  and  thus  curbed  his  extravagance.     He 

25 « 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

surrendered  with  a  pang,  for  after  all  his  preparation 
he  felt  like  a  duke,  and  for  that  night,  while  enter- 
taining his  friend,  he  wanted  to  be  a  duke,  not  a 
grubbing  student. 

We  met  Mr.  Thompkins  at  the  hotel,  and  I  found 
him  a  delightful  man,  with  a  pleasant  sparkle  of  the 
eye  and  a  certain  stiffness  of  bearing.  It  was  his 
intention  to  have  us  dine  with  him,  but  Bishop  gently 
took  him  in  hand,  and  gradually  gave  him  to  under- 
stand that  on  this  night  in  a  lifetime  he  was  in  the 
hands  of  his  friends,  to  do  as  they  said,  and  to  ask 
no  questions.  Mr.  Thompkins  looked  a  little  puzzled, 
a  little  apprehensive,  and  withal  not  unwilling  to  be 
sacrificed. 

The  first  thing  we  did  was  to  introduce  Mr.  Thomp- 
kins to  a  quiet  restaurant  famous  for  its  coquilles  St- 
Jacques  ;  it  is  in  the  old  Palais  Royal.  This  is  the 
dinner  that  Bishop  ordered  : 

Huitres  Portugaises. 

Sauterne.     Medoc. 

Consomme. 

Coquilles  St. -Jacques. 

Macaroni  a  la  Milanaisc. 

Filet  de  boeuf. 

Pommes  nouvelles  sautees. 

Creme  petit  Suisse. 

Eclairs. 

Cafe. 

Mr.  Thompkins's  enjoyment  of  the  meal  was  as 

generous  as  his  praise  of  Bishop's  skill  in  ordering 

it,  and  he  declared  that  the  wines  particularly  were  a 

252 


A   NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

rare  treat.  By  the  time  that  dinner  had  been  finished 
he  was  enthusiastic  about  Paris.  He  said  that  it  was 
a  wonderful  city,  and  that  he  was  entirely  at  our  dis- 
posal for  the  night. 

"I  suppose,  gentlemen,"  he  suggested,  "that  you 
are  going  to  invite  me  to  the  opera.  Now,  I  have 
no  objections  to  that,  and  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted,— it  is  only  one  evening  in  a  lifetime,  perhaps. 
But  I  shall  insist  that  you  go  as  my  guests." 

Bishop  laughed  merrily,  and  slapped  his  friend  on 
the  back  in  a  way  that  I  never  should  have  employed 
with  a  man  of  so  much  dignity. 

"The  opera,  old  man!"  cried  Bishop.  "Why, 
you  blessed  idiot,  you  act  like  a  tourist !  The  opera  ! 
You  can  go  there  any  time.  To-night  we  shall  see 
Paris  !"  and  he  laughed  again.  "  The  opera  !"  he 
repeated.  "  Oh,  my  !  You  can  fall  over  the  opera 
whenever  you  please.  This  is  an  opportunity  for  a 
tour  of  discovery." 

Mr.  Thompkins  laughed  with  equal  heartiness,  and 
declared  that  nothing  would  delight  him  more  than 
to  be  an  explorer — for  one  night  in  a  lifetime. 

"The  Boul'  Mich'  or  Montmartre ?''  Bishop  whis- 
pered to  me. 

"  Montmartre,"  I  replied  ;  "  Heaven,  Death,  Hell, 
and  Bruant." 

Never  had  the  Avenue  de  1' Opera  appeared  so 
brilliant  and  lively  as  on  that  cold,  crisp  December 
night,  as  we  strolled  towards  the  boulevards.  Its 
thousands  of  lights,  its  dashing  equipages  with  the 
jingling  harness  of  horses  drawing  handsome  women 

253 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

and  men  to  the  Opera,  its  swiftly  moving  cabs 
and  heavy  'buses  roUing  over  the  smooth  wooden 
pavement,  the  shouts  of  drivers  and  the  crack- 
ing of  whips,  the  throngs  of  gay  people  enjoying 
the  holiday  attractions,  the  endless  rows  of  gaudy 
booths  lining  the  street,  the  flood  of  light  and 
color  ever)'where,  the  cuirassiers  of  the  Garde 
Alunicipale  mounted  on  superb  horses  standing 
motionless  in  the  Place  de  1' Opera,  their  long 
boots  and  steel  breastplates  and  helmets  glisten- 
ing,—  these  all  had  their  place, — while  the  broad 
stairs  of  the  Opera  were  crowded  with  beautifully 
gowned  women  and  fashionable  men  pouring  in  to 
hear  Sibyl  Sanderson  sing  in  "Samson  and  Deli- 
lah,"— all  this  made  a  wonderful  picture  of  life  and 
beauty,  of  color,  motion,  vivacity,  and  enjoyment. 
Above  the  entrance  to  the  Opera  red  marble  col- 
umns reflected  the  yellow  light  of  the  gilded  foyer 
and  of  the  yellow  blaze  from  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix 
across  the  way. 

We  mounted  a  Montmartre  'bus  and  were  pulled 
up  the  hill  to  the  Boul'  Clichy,  the  main  artery  of 
that  strange  Bohemian  mountain  with  its  eccentric, 
fantastic,  and  morbid  attractions.  Before  us,  in  the 
Place  Blanche,  stood  the  great  Moulin  Rouge,  the 
long  skeleton  arms  of  the  Red  Mill  marked  with 
red  electric  lights  and  slowly  sweeping  across  the 
heavens,  while  fanciful  figures  of  students  and  dancing 
girls  looked  out  the  windows  of  the  mill,  and  a  great 
crowd  of  lively,  chatting,  laughing  people  were  push- 
ing their  way  toward   the   entrance  of  this  famous 

254 


A   NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

dance-hall  of  Paris.  Mr.  Thompkins,  entranced 
before  the  brilliant  spectacle,  asked  somewhat  hesi- 
tatingly if  we  might  enter  ;  but  Bishop,  wise  in  the 
ways  of  Montmartre,  replied, — 

"  Not  yet.  It  is  only  a  little  after  nine,  and  the 
Moulin  does  not  get  wide  awake  for  some  hours  yet. 
We  have  no  time  to  waste  while  waiting  for  that. 
We  shall  first  visit  heaven." 

Mr.  Thompkins  looked  surprised,  but  made  no 
response.  Presently  we  reached  the  gilded  gales 
of  Le  Cabaret  du  Ciel.  They  were  bathed  in  a 
cold  blue  light  from  above.  Angels,  gold-lined 
clouds,  saints,  sacred  palms  and  plants,  and  other 
paraphernalia  suggestive  of  the  approach  to  St. 
Peter's  domain,  filled  all  the  available  space  about 
the  entree.  A  bold  white  placard.  "  Bock,  i  Franc," 
was  displayed  in  the  midst  of  it  all.  Dolorous 
church  music  sounded  within,  and  the  heavens  were 
unrolled  as  a  scroll  in  all  their  tinsel  splendor  as  we 
entered  to  the  bidding  of  an  angel. 

Flitting  about  the  room  were  many  more  angels, 
all  in  white  robes  and  with  sandals  on  their  feet,  and 
all  wearing  gauzy  wings  swaying  from  their  shoulder- 
blades  and  brass  halos  above  their  yellow  wigs. 
These  were  the  waiters,  the  gargons  of  heaven, 
ready  to  take  orders  for  drinks.  One  of  these,  with 
the  face  of  a  heavy  villain  in  a  melodrama  and  a 
beard  a  week  old,  roared  unmelodiously, — 

"  The  greetings  of  heaven  to  thee,  brothers ! 
Eternal  bliss  and  happiness  are  for  thee.  Mayst 
thou  never  swerve  from  its  golden  paths  !     Breathe 

255 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

thou  its  sacred  purity  and  renovating  exaltation. 
Prepare  to  meet  thy  great  Creator — and  don't  forget 
the  gargon  !" 


ENTRANCE  TO   "  HEAVEN" 


A  very  long  table  covered  with  white   extended 

the  whole  length  of  the  chilly  room,  and  seated  at 

256 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 


it,  drinking,  were  scores  of  candidates  for  angelship, 
— mortals  like  ourselves.  Men  and  women  were 
they,  and  though  noisy  and  vivacious,  they  indulged 
in  nothing  like  the  abandon  of  the  Boul'  Mich'  cafes. 
Gilded  vases  and  candelabra,  together 
with  foamy  bocks,  somewhat  relieved 
the  dead  whiteness  of  the  table.  The 
ceiling  was  an  impressionistic  render- 
ing of  blue  sky,  fleecy  clouds,  and 
golden  stars,  and  the  walls  were  made 
to  represent  the  noble  enclosure  and 
golden  gates  of  paradise. 

"  Brothers,  your  orders  !  Com- 
mand me,  thy  servant !"  growled  a 
ferocious  angel  at  our  elbows,  with  his 
accent  de  la  Villette,  and  his  brass 
halo  a  trifle  askew. 

Mr.  Thompkins  had  been  very 
quiet,  for  he  was  Wonder  in  the  flesh, 
and  perhaps  there  was  some  distress 
in  his  face,  but  there  was  courage  also. 
The  suddenness  of  the  angel's  assault 
visibly  disconcerted  him, — he  did  not  know  what  to 
order.  Finally  he  decided  on  a  verre  de  Chartreuse, 
green.      Bishop  and  I  ordered  bocks. 

"  Two  sparkling  draughts  of  heaven's  own  brew 
and  one  star-dazzler !"  yelled  our  angel. 

"Thy  will  be  done,"  came  the  response  from  a 
hidden  bar. 

Obscured    by  great    masses    of    clouds,    through 
whose  intervals  shone  golden  stars,  an  organ  con- 
17  257 


he  serves  beer  in 
"  heaven" 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

tinually  rumbled  sacred  music,  which  had  a  depress- 
ing rather  than  a  solemn  effect,  and  even  the  draughts 
of  heaven's  own  brew  and  the  star-dazzler  failed  to 
dissipate  the  gloom. 

Suddenly,  without  the  slightest  warning,  the  head 
of  St.  Peter,  whiskers  and  all,  appeared  in  a  hole  in 
the  sky,  and  presently  all  of  him  emerged,  even  to 
his  ponderous  keys  clanging  at  his  girdle.  He  gazed 
solemnly  down  upon  the  crowd  at  the  tables  and 
thoughtfully  scratched  his  left  wing.  From  behind 
a  dark  cloud  he  brought  forth  a  vessel  of  white 
crockery  (which  was  not  a  wash-bowl)  containing 
(ostensibly)  holy  water.  After  several  mysterious 
signs  and  passes  with  his  bony  hands  he  generously 
sprinkled  the  sinners  below  with  a  brush  dipped  in 
the  water ;  and  then,  with  a  parting  blessing,  he 
slowly  faded  into  mist. 

"  Did  you  ever  ?  Well,  well,  I  declare  !"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Thompkins,  breathlessly. 

The  royal  cortege  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  was 
now  forming  at  one  end  of  the  room  before  a  shrine, 
whereon  an  immense  golden  pig  sat  sedately  on  his 
haunches,  looking  friendly  and  jovial,  his  loose  skin 
and  fat  jowls  hanging  in  folds.  Lighted  candles 
sputtered  about  his  golden  sides.  As  the  partici- 
pants in  the  pageant,  all  attaches  of  the  place,  formed 
for  the  procession,  each  bowed  reverently  and  crossed 
himself  before  the  huge  porker.  A  small  man,  dressed 
in  a  loose  black  gown  and  black  skull-cap,  evidently 
made  up  for  Dante,  whom  he  resembled,  officiated  as 
master  of  ceremonies.     He  mounted  a  golden  pulpit, 

258 


A    NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 


and  delivered,  in  a  loud,  rasping  voice,  a  tedious  dis- 
course on  heaven  and  allied  things.  He  dwelt  on 
the  attractions  of  heaven  as  a  perpetual  summer  re- 
sort,   an    unbroken 

round  of  pleasures  in  ^^    \\\M :,.'.,. /w,  ^^^.>_ 

variety,  where  sweet 
strains  of  angelic 
music  (indicating  the 
wheezy  organ),  to- 
gether with  unlimited 
stores  of  heaven's  own 
sparkling  fire  of  life, 
at  a  franc  a  bock,  and 
beautiful  golden- 
haired  cherubs,  of  la 
Villette's  finest,  lent 
grace  and  perfection 
to  the  scheme. 

The  parade  then  be- 
gan its  tour  about  the 
room.  Dante,  carrying 
a  staff  surmounted  by  a  golden  bull,  serving  as 
drum-major.  Angel  musicians,  playing  upon  sacred 
lyres  and  harps,  followed  in  his  wake,  but  the  dolor- 
ous organ  made  the  more  noise.  Behind  the  lyre 
angels  came  a  number  of  the  notables  whom  Dante 
immortalized, — at  least,  we  judged  that  they  were  so 
intended.  The  angel  garq;ons  closed  the  cortege, 
their  gauzy  wings  and  brass  halos  bobbing  in  a 
stately  fashion  as  they  strode  along. 

The  angel  gargons  now  sauntered  up  and  gave  us 

261 


THE  GOLDEN   VORCUS 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

each  a  ticket  admitting  us  to  the  angel-room  and  the 
other  delights  of  the  inner  heaven. 

"You  arre  Eengleesh?"  he  asked.  "Yes?  Ah, 
theece  Eengleesh  arre  verra  genereauz,"  eyeing  his 
fifty-centime  tip  with  a  questioning  shrug.  "  Can 
you  not  make  me  un  franc  ?  Ah,  eet  ees  dam  cold 
in  theece  laigs,"  pointing  to  his  calves,  which  were 
encased  in  diaphanous  pink  tights.  He  got  his 
franc. 

Dante  announced  in  his  rasping  voice  that  those 
mortals  wishing  to  become  angels  should  proceed  up 
to  the  angel-room.  All  advanced  and  ascended  the 
inclined  passage-way  leading  into  the  blue.  At  the 
farther  end  of  the  passage  sat  old  St.  Peter,  solemn 
and  shivering,  for  it  was  draughty  there  among  the 
clouds.  He  collected  our  tickets,  gave  the  pass- 
word admitting  us  to  the  inner  precincts,  and  re- 
sented Bishop's  attempts  to  pluck  a  feather  from  his 
wings.  We  entered  a  large  room,  all  a  glamour  of 
gold  and  silver.  The  walls  were  studded  with  blazing 
nuggets,  colored  canvas  rocks,  and  electric  lights. 
We  took  seats  on  wooden  benches  fronting  a  cleft 
in  the  rocks,  and  waited. 

Soon  the  chamber  in  which  we  sat  became  per- 
fectly dark,  the  cleft  before  us  shining  with  a  dim 
bluish  light.  The  cleft  then  came  to  life  with  a  bevy 
of  female  angels  floating  through  the  limited  ethereal 
space,  and  smiling  down  upon  us  mortals.  One  of 
the  lady  angel's  tights  bagged  at  the  knees,  and  an- 
other's wings  were  not  on  straight ;  but  this  did  not 

interfere  with  her  flight,  any  more  than  did  the  sta- 

262 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 

tionary  position  of  the  wings  of  all.  But  it  was  all 
very  easily  and  gracefully  done,  swooping  down, 
soaring,  and  swinging  in  circles  like  so  many  great 
eagles.  They  seemed  to  discover  something  of  un- 
usual interest  in  Mr.  Thompkins,  for  they  singled  him 
out  to  throw  kisses  at  him.  This  made  him  blush 
and  fidget,  but  a  word  from  Bishop  reassured  him, — 
it  was  only  once  in  a  lifetime ! 

After  these  angels  had  gyrated  for  some  time,  the 
head  angel  of  the  angel-room  requested  those  who 
desired  to  become  angels  to  step  forward.  A  num- 
ber responded,  among  them  some  of  the  naughty 
dancing-girls  of  the  Moulin  Rouge.  They  were 
conducted  through  a  concealed  door,  and  presently 
we  beheld  them  soaring  in  the  empyrean  just  as 
happy  and  serene  as  though  they  were  used  to  being 
angels.  It  was  a  marvel  to  see  wings  so  frail  trans- 
port with  so  much  ease  a  very  stout  young  woman 
from  the  audience,  and  their  being  fully  clothed  did 
not  seem  to  make  any  difference. 

Mr.  Thompkins  had  sat  in  a  singularly  contem- 
plative mood  after  the  real  angels  had  quit  tor- 
turing him,  and  surprised  us  beyond  measure  by 
promptly  responding  to  a  second  call  for  those 
aspiring  to  angelhood.  He  disappeared  with  an- 
other batch  from  the  Moulin  Rouge,  and  soon  after- 
wards we  saw  him  floating  like  an  airship.  He  even 
wore  his  hat.  To  his  disgust  and  chagrin,  however, 
one  of  the  concert-hall  angels  persisted  in  flying  in 
front  of  him  and  making  violent  love  to  him.     This 

brought  forth    tumultuous   applause   and   laughter, 

263 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

which  completed  Mr.  Thompkins's  misery.  At  this 
juncture  the  blue  cleft  became  dark,  the  angel-room 
burst  into  light,  and  soon  Mr.  Thompkins  rejoined  us. 
As  we  filed  out  into  the  passage  Father  Time 
stood  with  long  whiskers  and  scythe,  greeted  us 
with  profound  bows,  and  promised  that  his  scythe 
would  spare  us  for  many  happy  years  did  we  but 
drop  sous  into  his  hour-glass. 

There  was  no  conversation  among  us  when  we 
emerged  upon  the  boulevard,  for  Mr.  Thompkins 
was  in  a  retrospective  frame  of  mind.  Bishop  em- 
braced the  opportunity  to  lead  us  up  the  Boulevard 
Clichy  to  the  Place  Pigalle.  As  we  neared  the  Place 
we  saw  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  two  flick- 
ering iron  lanterns  that  threw  a  ghastly  green  light 
down  upon  the  barred  dead-black  shutters  of  the 
building,  and  caught  the  faces  of  the  passers-by  with 
sickly  rays  that  took  out  all  the  life  and  transformed 
them  into  the  semblance  of  corpses.  Across  the  top 
of  the  closed  black  entrance  were  large  white  letters, 
reading  simply : 

Cafe  du  Neant 

The  entrance  was  heavily  draped  with  black  cere- 
ments, having  white  trimmings, — such  as  hang  before 
the  houses  of  the  dead  in  Paris.  Here  patrolled  a 
solitary  croque-mort,  or  hired  pall-bearer,  his  black 
cape  drawn  closely  about  him,  the  green  light  re- 
flected by  his  glazed   top-hat.      A  more  dismal  and 

forbidding  place  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.     Mr. 

264 


A   NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

Thompkins  paled  a  little  when  he  discovered  that  this 
was  our  destination, — this  grisly  caricature  of  eternal 
nothingness, — and  hesitated  at  the  threshold.  With- 
out a  word  Bishop  firmly  took  his  arm  and  entered. 
The  lonely  croque-mort  drew  apart  the  heavy  curtain 
and  admitted  us  into  a  black  hole  that  proved  later 
to  be  a  room.  The  chamber  was  dimly  lighted  with 
wax  tapers,  and  a  large  chandelier  intricately  devised 
of  human  skulls  and  arms,  with  funeral  candles  held 
in  their  fleshless  fingers,  gave  its  small  quota  of  light. 

Large,  heavy,  wooden  coffins,  resting  on  biers, 
were  ranged  about  the  room  in  an  order  suggesting 
the  recent  happening  of  a  frightful  catastrophe.  The 
walls  were  decorated  with  skulls  and  bones,  skele- 
tons in  grotesque  attitudes,  battle-pictures,  and  guillo- 
tines in  action.  Death,  carnage,  assassination  were 
the  dominant  note,  set  in  black  hangings  and  illumi- 
nated with  mottoes  on  death.  A  half-dozen  voices 
droned  this  in  a  low  monotone  : 

"  Enter,  mortals  of  this  sinful  world,  enter  into  the 
mists  and  shadows  of  eternity.  Select  your  biers, 
to  the  right,  to  the  left ;  fit  yourselves  comfortably  to 
them,  and  repose  in  the  solemnity  and  tranquillity  of 
death  ;  and  may  God  have  mercy  on  your  souls  !" 

A  number  of  persons  who  had  preceded  us  had 
already  pre-empted  their  coffins,  and  were  sitting  be- 
side them  awaiting  developments  and  enjoying  their 
consommations,  using  the  coffins  for  their  real  pur- 
pose,— tables  for  holding  drinking-glasses.  Along- 
side the  glasses  were  slender  tapers  by  which  the 

visitors  might  see  one  another. 

265 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


There  seemed 
to  be  no  mechan- 
ical  imperfection 
in  the  illusion  of 
a  charnel-house  ; 
we  imagined  that 
even      chemistry 
had    contributed 
its  resources,  for 
there  seemed  dis- 
tinctly to  be 
the  odor  ap- 
propriate  to 
such  a  place. 
We  found  a 

vacant  coffin  in  the  vault,  seated  ourselves  at  it  on 

266 


IN   THE   CABARET   OF    DEATH 


A   NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

rush-bottomed  stools,  and  awaited  further  develop- 
ments. 

Another  croque-mort — a  gar^on  he  was — came 
up  through  the  gloom  to  take  our  orders.  He  was 
dressed  completely  in  the  professional  garb 
of  a  hearse-follower,  including  claw-hammer 
coat,  full-dress  front,  glazed  tile,  and  oval 
silver  badge.     He  droned, — 

"Bon  soir,  Macchabees  !  *     Buvez 
les  crachats  d'asthmatiques,  voila  des 
sueurs  froides  d'agonisants.     Prenez  done 
des  certificats  de  deces,  seulement  vingt 
sous.     C'est  pas  cher  et  c'est  artistique  !" 

Bishop  said  that  he  would  be  pleased 
with  a  lowly  bock.  Mr,  Thompkins  chose 
cherries  a  I'eau-de-vie,  and  I,  une  menthe. 

"  One  microbe  of  Asiatic  cholera  from 
the  last  corpse,  one  leg  of  a  lively  cancer, 
and    one    sample    of    our    consumption 
germ  !"   moaned   the  creature  toward  a      ^  waiter  in 
black  hole  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  ^„  ^„,.^„ 

\jr    DEATH 

Some  women  among  the  visitors  tittered, 
others  shuddered,  and  Mr.  Thompkins  broke  out  in 
a  cold  sweat  on  his  brow,  while  a  curious  accompani- 
ment of  anger  shone  in  his  eyes.  Our  sleepy  pall- 
bearer soon  loomed  through  the  darkness  with  our 
deadly  microbes,  and  waked  the  echoes  in  the  hollow 
casket  upon  which  he  set  the  glasses  with  a  thump. 


*  This  word  (also  Maccabe,  argot  Macabit)  is  given  in  Paris 
by  sailors  to  cadavers  found  floating  in  the  river. 

267 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

"Drink,  Macchabees  !"  he  wailed:  "drink  these 
noxious  potions,  which  contain  the  vilest  and  dead- 
liest poisons  !" 

"  The  villain  !"  gasped  Mr.  Thompkins  ;  "  it  is  hor- 
rible, disgusting,  filthy  !" 

The  tapers  flickered  feebly  on  the  coffins,  and  the 
white  skulls  grinned  at  him  mockingly  fi-om  their 
sable  background.  Bishop  exhausted  all  his  tactics 
in  trying  to  induce  Mr.  Thompkins  to  taste  his  bran- 
died  cherries,  but  that  gentleman  positively  refijsed, 
— he  seemed  unable  to  banish  the  idea  that  they 
were  laden  with  disease  germs. 

After  we  had  been  seated  here  for  some  time,  get- 
ting no  consolation  from  the  utter  absence  of  spirit 
and  levity  among  the  other  guests,  and  enjoying  only 
the  dismay  and  trepidation  of  new  and  strange  arri- 
vals, a  rather  good-looking  young  fellow,  dressed  in 
a  black  clerical  coat,  came  through  a  dark  door  and 
began  to  address  the  assembled  patrons.  His  voice 
was  smooth,  his  manner  solemn  and  impressive,  as 
he  delivered  a  well-worded  discourse  on  death.  He 
spoke  of  it  as  the  gate  through  which  we  must  all 
make  our  exit  from  this  world, — of  the  gloom,  the 
loneliness,  the  utter  sense  of  helplessness  and  deso- 
lation. As  he  warmed  to  his  subject  he  enlarged 
upon  the  follies  that  hasten  the  advent  of  death,  and 
spoke  of  the  relentless  certainty  and  the  incredible 
variety  of  ways  in  which  the  reaper  claims  his  vic- 
tims. Then  he  passed  on  to  the  terrors  of  actual 
dissolution,  the  tortures  of  the  body,  the  rending  of 

the  soul,  the  unimaginable  agonies  that  sensibilities 

268 


A    NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

rendered  acutely  susceptible  at  this  extremity  are 
called  upon  to  endure.  It  required  good  nerves  to 
listen  to  that,  for  the  man  was  perfect  in  his  role. 
From  matters  of  individual  interest  in  death  he  passed 
to  death  in  its  larger  aspects.  He  pointed  to  a  large 
and  striking  battle  scene,  in  which  the  combatants 
had  come  to  hand-to-hand  fighting,  and  were  butcher- 
mg  one  another  in  a  mad  lust  for  blood.  Suddenly 
the  picture  began  to  glow,  the  light  bringing  out  its 
ghastly  details  with  hideous  distinctness.  Then  as 
suddenly  it  faded  away,  and  where  fighting  men  had 
been  there  were  skeletons  writhing  and  struggling 
in  a  deadly  embrace. 

A  similar  effect  was  produced  with  a  painting 
giving  a  wonderfully  realistic  representation  of  an 
execution  by  the  guillotine.  The  bleeding  trunk  of 
the  victim  lying  upon  the  flap-board  dissolved,  the 
flesh  slowly  disappearing,  leaving  only  the  white 
bones.  Another  picture,  representing  a  brilliant 
dance-hall  filled  with  happy  revellers,  slowly  merged 
into  a  grotesque  dance  of  skeletons  ;  and  thus  it  was 
with  the  other  pictures  about  the  room. 

All  this  being  done,  the  master  of  ceremonies,  in 

lugubrious  tones,  invited  us  to  enter  the  chambre 

de    la    mort.      All   the   visitors    rose,    and,    bearing 

each  a   taper,   passed  in  single  file  into  a  narrow, 

dark   passage  faintly  illuminated  with  sickly  green 

lights,   the   young   man   in  clerical   garb   acting  as 

pilot.      The    cross    effects    of    green    and    yellow 

lights  on  the  faces  of  the  groping  procession  were 

more   startling    than    picturesque.      The   way   was 

269 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

lined  with  bones,  skulls,   and  fragments  of  human 
bodies. 

"  O  Macchabees,  nous  sommes  devant  la  porte  de 
la  chambre  de  la  mort !"  wailed  an  unearthly  voice 


IN   THE    PASSAGE   TO    THE    DEATH    CHAMBER 


from  the  farther  end  of  the  passage  as  we  advanced. 

Then  before  us  appeared  a  solitary  figure  standing 

270 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 

beneath  a  green  lamp.  The  figure  was  completely 
shrouded  in  black,  only  the  eyes  being  visible,  and 
they  shone  through  holes  in  the  pointed  cowl.  From 
the  folds  of  the  gown  it  brought  forth  a  massive  iron 
key  attached  to  a  chain,  and,  approaching  a  door 
seemingly  made  of  iron  and  heavily  studded  with 
spikes  and  crossed  with  bars,  inserted  and  turned 
the  key  ;  the  bolts  moved  with  a  harsh,  grating  noise, 
and  the  door  of  the  chamber  of  death  swung  slowly 
open. 

"O  Macchabees,  enter  into  eternity,  whence  none 
ever  return  !"  cried  the  new,  strange  voice. 

The  walls  of  the  room  were  a  dead  and  unrelieved 
black.  At  one  side  two  tall  candles  were  burning, 
but  their  feeble  light  was  insufficient  even  to  disclose 
the  presence  of  the  black  walls  of  the  chamber  or  in- 
dicate that  anything  but  unending  blackness  extended 
heavenward.  There  was  not  a  thing  to  catch  and 
reflect  a  single  ray  of  the  light  and  thus  become  visi- 
ble in  the  blackness. 

Between  the  two  candles  was  an  upright  opening 
in  the  wall  ;  it  was  of  the  shape  of  a  coffin.  We  were 
seated  upon  rows  of  small  black  caskets  resting  on 
the  floor  in  front  of  the  candles.  There  was  hardly 
a  whisper  among  the  visitors.  The  black-hooded 
figure  passed  silently  out  of  view  and  vanished  in 
the  darkness. 

Presently  a  pale,  greenish-white  illumination  began 
to  light  up  the  coffin-shaped  hole  in  the  wall,  clearly 
marking  its  outline  against  the  black.  Within  this 
space  there  stood  a  coffin  upright,  in  which  a  pretty 

271 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

young  woman,  robed  in  a  white  shroud,  fitted  snugly. 
Soon  it  was  evident  that  she  was  very  much  ahve,  for 
she  smiled  and  looked  at  us  saucily.  But  that  was 
not  for  long.     From  the  depths  came  a  dismal  wail : 

"  O  Macchabee,  beautiful,  breathing  mortal,  pul- 
sating with  the  warmth  and  richness  of  life,  thou  art 
now  in  the  grasp  of  death  !  Compose  thy  soul  for 
the  end !" 

Her  face  slowly  became  white  and  rigid  ;  her  eyes 
sank  ;  her  lips  tightened  across  her  teeth  ;  her  cheeks 
took  on  the  hollowness  of  death, — she  was  dead. 
But  it  did  not  end  with  that.  From  white  the  face 
slowly  grew  livid  .  .  .  then  purplish  black.  .  .  .  The 
eyes  visibly  shrank  into  their  greenish-yellow  sockets. 
.  .  .  Slowly  the  hair  fell  away.  .  .  .  The  nose  melted 
away  into  a  purple  putrid  spot.  The  whole  face  be- 
came a  semi-liquid  mass  of  corruption.  Presently  all 
this  had  disappeared,  and  a  gleaming  skull  shone 
where  so  recently  had  been  the  handsome  face  of  a 
woman  ;  naked  teeth  grinned  inanely  and  savagely 
where  rosy  lips  had  so  recently  smiled.  Even  the 
shroud  had  gradually  disappeared,  and  an  entire 
skeleton  stood  revealed  in  the  coffin. 

The  wail  again  rang  through  the  silent  vault : 

"Ah,  ah,  Macchabee !  Thou  hast  reached  the  last 
stage  of  dissolution,  so  dreadful  to  mortals.  The 
work  that  follows  death  is  complete.  But  despair 
not,  for  death  is  not  the  end  of  all.  The  power  is 
given  to  those  who  merit  it,  not  only  to  return  to  life, 
but  to  return  in  any  form  and  station  preferred  to 

the  old.     So  return  if  thou  deservedst  and  desirest." 

272 


IN    THE    DEATH    CHAMBER 


A    NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

With  a  slowness  equal  to  that  of  the  dissolution, 
the  bones  became  covered  with  flesh  and  cerements, 
and  all  the  ghastly  steps  were  reproduced  reversed. 
Gradually  the  sparkle  of  the  eyes  began  to  shine 
through  the  gloom  ;  but  when  the  reformation  was 
completed,  behold  !  there  was  no  longer  the  hand- 
some and  smiling  young  woman,  but  the  sleek, 
rotund  body,  ruddy  cheeks,  and  self-conscious  look 
of  a  banker.  It  was  not  until  this  touch  of  comedy 
relieved  the  strain  that  the  rigidity  with  which  Mr. 
Thompkins  had  sat  between  us  began  to  relax,  and 
a  smile  played  over  his  face, — a  bewildered,  but  none 
the  less  a  pleasant,  smile.  The  prosperous  banker 
stepped  forth,  sleek  and  tangible,  and  haughtily  strode 
away  before  our  eyes,  passing  through  the  audience 
into  the  darkness.  Again  was  the  coffin-shaped  hole 
in  the  wall  dark  and  empty. 

He  of  the  black  gown  and  pointed  hood  now 
emerged  through  an  invisible  door,  and  asked  if 
there  was  any  one  in  the  audience  who  desired  to 
pass  through  the  experience  that  they  had  just  wit- 
nessed. This  created  a  suppressed  commotion  ; 
each  peered  into  the  face  of  his  neighbor  to  find  one 
with  courage  sufficient  for  the  ordeal.  Bishop  sug- 
gested to  Mr.  Thompkins  in  a  whisper  that  he  sub- 
mit himself,  but  that  gentleman  very  peremptorily 
declined.  Then,  after  a  pause.  Bishop  stepped  forth 
and  announced  that  he  was  prepared  to  die.  He 
was  asked  solemnly  by  the  doleful  person  if  he  was 
ready  to  accept  all  the  consequences  of  his  decision. 

He   replied    that   he   was.      Then    he    disappeared 

275 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

through  the  black  wall,  and  presently  appeared  in 
the  greenish-white  light  of  the  open  coffin.  There 
he  composed  himself  as  he  imagined  a  corpse  ought, 
crossed  his  hands  upon  his  breast,  suffered  the  white 
shroud  to  be  drawn  about  him,  and  awaited  results, 
— after  he  had  made  a  rueful  grimace  that  threw  the 
first  gleam  of  suppressed  merriment  through  the  op- 
pressed audience.  He  passed  through  all  the  ghastly- 
stages  that  the  former  occupant  of  the  coffin  had  ex- 
perienced, and  returned  in  proper  person  to  life  and 
to  his  seat  beside  Mr.  Thompkins,  the  audience  ap- 
plauding softly. 

A  mysterious  figure  in  black  waylaid  the  crowd 
as  it  filed  out.  He  held  an  inverted  skull,  into 
which  we  were  expected  to  drop  sous  through  the 
natural  opening  there,  and  it  was  with  the  feeling 
of  relief  from  a  heavy  weight  that  we  departed 
and  turned  our  backs  on  the  green  lights  at  the 
entrance. 

What  a  wonderful  contrast !  Here  we  were  in  the 
free,  wide,  noisy,  brilliant  world  again.  Here  again 
were  the  crowds,  the  venders,  saucy  grisettes  with 
their  bright  smiles,  shining  teeth,  and  alluring  glances. 
Here  again  were  the  bustling  cafes,  the  music,  the 
lights,  the  life,  and  above  all  the  giant  arms  of  the 
Moulin  Rouge  sweeping  the  sky. 

"Now,"  quietly  remarked  Bishop,  "  having  passed 
through  death,  we  will  explore  hell." 

Mr.  Thompkins  seemed  too  weak,  or  unresisting, 

or  apathetic  to  protest.     His  face  betrayed  a  queer 

276 


THE   ENTRANCE  TO   "  HELL' 


A    NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

mixture  of  emotions,  part  suffering,  part  revulsion, 
part  a  sort  of  desperate  eagerness  for  more. 

We  passed  through  a  large,  hideous,  fanged,  open 
mouth  in  an  enormous  face  from  which  shone  eyes 
of  blazing  crimson.  Curiously  enough,  it  adjoined 
heaven,  whose  cool  blue  lights  contrasted  strikingly 
with  the  fierce  ruddiness  of  hell.  Red-hot  bars  and 
gratings  through  which  flaming  coals  gleamed  ap- 
peared in  the  walls  within  the  red  mouth,  A  placard 
announced  that  should  the  temperature  of  this  in- 
ferno make  one  thirsty,  innumerable  bocks  might  be 
had  at  sixty-five  centimes  each,  A  little  red  imp 
guarded  the  throat  of  the  monster  into  whose  mouth 
we  had  walked  ;  he  was  cutting  extraordinary  capers, 
and  made  a  great  show  of  stirring  the  fires.  The 
red  imp  opened  the  imitation  heavy  metal  door  for 
our  passage  to  the  interior,  crying, — 

"Ah,  ah.  ah  !  still  they  come  !  Oh,  how  they  will 
roast !"  Then  he  looked  keenly  at  Mr.  Thompkins. 
It  was  interesting  to  note  how  that  gentleman  was 
always  singled  out  by  these  shrewd  students  of  hu- 
manity. This  particular  one  added  with  great  gusto, 
as  he  narrowly  studied  Mr  Thompkins,  "  Hist !  ye 
infernal  whelps  ;  stir  well  the  coals  and  heat  red  the 
prods,  for  this  is  where  we  take  our  revenge  on 
earthly  saintliness  !" 

"Enter  and  be  damned, — the  Evil  One  awaits 
you!"  growled  a  chorus  of  rough  voices  as  we  hesi- 
tated before  the  scene  confronting  us. 

Near  us  was   suspended  a   caldron    over   a  fire, 

and  hopping  within  it  were  half  a  dozen  devil  musi- 

279 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

cians,  male  and  female,  playing  a  selection  from 
"Faust"  on  stringed  instruments,  while  red  imps 
stood  by,  prodding  with  red-hot  irons  those  who 
lagged  in  their  performance. 

Crevices  in  the  walls  of  this  room  ran  with  streams 
of  molten  gold  and  silver,  and  here  and  there  were 
caverns  lit  up  by  smouldering  fires  from  which  thick 
smoke  issued,  and  vapors  emitting  the  odors  of  a 
volcano.  Flames  would  suddenly  burst  from  clefts 
in  the  rocks,  and  thunder  rolled  through  the  caverns. 
Red  imps  were  everywhere,  darting  about  noise- 
lessly, some  carrying  beverages  for  the  thirsty  lost 
souls,  others  stirring  the  fires  or  turning  somersaults. 
Everything  was  in  a  high  state  of  motion. 

Numerous  red  tables  stood  against  the  fiery  walls; 
at  these  sat  the  visitors.  Mr.  Thompkins  seated 
himself  at  one  of  them.  Instantly  it  became  aglow 
with  a  mysterious  light,  which  kept  flaring  up  and 
disappearing  in  an  erratic  fashion  ;  flames  darted 
from  the  walls,  fires  crackled  and  roared.  One  of 
the  imps  came  to  take  our  order ;  it  was  for  three 
coffees,  black,  with  cognac  ;  and  this  is  how  he 
shrieked  the  order : 

"  Three  seething  bumpers  of  molten  sins,  with  a 

dash  of  brimstone  intensifier  !"     Then,  when  he  had 

brought  it,   "This  will  season  your   intestines,  and 

render  them  invulnerable,  for  a  time  at  least,  to  the 

tortures  of  the  melted  iron  that  will  be  soon  poured 

down  your  throats."      The  glasses  glowed  with  a 

phosphorescent  light.      "  Three   francs  seventy-five, 

please,    not    counting    me.      Make    it   four   francs. 

280 


A   NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

Thank  you  well.  Remember  that  though  hell  is  hot, 
there  are  cold  drinks  if  you  want  them." 

Presently  Satan  himself  strode  into  the  cavern, 
gorgeous  in  his  imperial  robe  of  red,  decked  with 
blazing  jewels,  and  brandishing  a  sword  from  which 
fire  flashed.  His  black  moustaches  were  waxed  into 
sharp  points,  and  turned  rakishly  upward  above  lips 
upon  which  a  sneering  grin  appeared.  Thus  he 
leered  at  the  new  arrivals  in  his  domain.  His  ap- 
pearance lent  new  zest  to  the  activity  of  the  imps 
and  musicians,  and  all  cowered  under  his  glance. 
Suddenly  he  burst  into  a  shrieking  laugh  that  gave 
one  a  creepy  feeling.  It  rattled  through  the  cavern 
with  a  startling  effect  as  he  strode  up  and  down.  It 
was  a  triumphant,  cruel,  merciless  laugh.  All  at 
once  he  paused  in  front  of  a  demure  young  Parisi- 
enne  seated  at  a  table  with  her  escort,  and,  eying 
her  keenly,  broke  into  this  speech  : 

"Ah,  you!  Why  do  you  tremble?  How  many 
men  have  you  sent  hither  to  damnation  with  those 
beautiful  eyes,  those  rosy,  tempting  lips  ?  Ah,  for 
all  that,  you  have  found  a  sufficient  hell  on  earth. 
But  you,"  he  added,  turning  fiercely  upon  her  escort, 
"you  will  have  the  finest,  the  most  exquisite  tortures 
that  await  the  damned.  For  what?  For  being  a 
fool.  It  is  folly  more  than  crime  that  hell  punishes, 
for  crime  is  a  disease  and  folly  a  sin.  You  fool  ! 
For  thus  hanging  upon  the  witching  glance  and  oily 
words  of  a  woman  you  have  filled  all  hell  with  fuel 
for  your  roasting.     You  will  sufier  such  tortures  as 

only  the  fool  invites,  such  tortures  only  as  are  ade- 

281 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

quate  to  punish  folly.  Prepare  for  the  inconceivable, 
the  unimaginable,  the  things  that  even  the  king  of 
hell  dare  not  mention  lest  the  whole  structure  of 
damnation  totter  and  crumble  to  dust." 

The  man  winced,  and  queer  wrinkles  came  into 
the  corners  of  his  mouth.  Then  Satan  happened  to 
discover  Mr.  Thompkins,  who  shrank  visibly  under 
the  scorching  gaze.  Satan  made  a  low,  mocking 
bow. 

"You  do  me  great  honor,  sir,"  he  declared,  unc- 
tuously. "You  may  have  been  expecting  to  avoid 
me,  but  reflect  upon  what  you  would  have  missed  ! 
We  have  many  notables  here,  and  you  will  have 
charming  society.  They  do  not  include  pickpockets 
and  thieves,  nor  any  others  of  the  weak,  stunted, 
crippled,  and  halting.  You  will  find  that  most  of 
your  companions  are  distinguished  gentlemen  of 
learning  and  ability,  who,  knowing  their  duty,  failed 
to  perform  it.  You  will  be  in  excellent  company, 
sir,"  he  concluded,  with  another  low  bow.  Then, 
suddenly  turning  and  sweeping  the  room  with  a  ges- 
ture, he  commanded,  "To  the  hot  room,  all  of  you  !" 
while  he  swung  his  sword,  from  which  flashes  of  light- 
ning trailed  and  thunder  rumbled. 

We  were  led  to  the  end  of  a  passage,  where  a  red- 
hot  iron  door  barred  further  progress. 

"  Oh,  oh,  within  there  !"  roared  Satan.  "  Open 
the  portal  of  the  hot  chamber,  that  these  fresh  arri- 
vals may  be  introduced  to  the  real  temperature  of 
hell  !" 

After  numerous  signals  and  mysterious  passes  the 

282 


A   NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

door  swung  open,  and  we  entered.  It  was  not  so 
very  hot  after  all.  The  chamber  resembled  the 
other,  except  that  a  small  stage  occupied  one  end. 
A  large  green  snake  crawled  out  upon  this,  and  sud- 
denly it  was  transformed  into  a  red  devil  with  ex- 
ceedingly long,  thin  legs,  encased  in  tights  that  were 
ripped  in  places.  He  gave  some  wonderful  contor- 
tion feats.  A  poor  little  white  Pierrot  came  on  and 
assisted  the  red  devil  in  black  art  performances. 
By  this  time  we  discovered  that  in  spite  of  the  half- 
molten  condition  of  the  rock-walls,  the  room  was  dis- 
agreeably chilly.  And  that  ended  our  experience  in 
hell. 

Bishop  then  led  us  to  the  closed,  dark  front  of  a 
house  in  front  of  which  stood  a  suspicious-looking 
man,  who  eyed  us  contemptuously.  Bishop  told  him 
that  we  should  like  to  enter.  The  man  assented 
with  a  growl.  He  beat  upon  the  door  with  a  stick  ; 
a  little  wicket  opened,  and  a  villanous  face  peered 
out  at  us. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  came  from  it  in  gruff  tones. 

"To  enter,  of  course,"  responded  Bishop. 

"  Are  they  all  right,  do  you  think  ?"  asked  the  face 
of  the  sentinel. 

"I  think  they  are  harmless,"  was  the  answer. 

Several  bolts  and  locks  grated,  and  the  stubborn 
door  opened. 

"  Enter,    you    vile   specimens    of    human    folly !" 

hissed  the  inside  guard  as  we  passed  within.      "  D — 

all  three  of  you  !" 

285 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

We  had  no  sooner  found  ourselves  inside  than 
this  same  person,  a  short,  stout  man,  with  long  hair 
and  a  powerful  frame,  and  the  face  of  a  cutthroat, 
struck  a  table  with  the  heavy  stick  that  he  carried, 
and  roared  to  us, — 

"  Sit  down  !" 

Mr.  Thompkins  involuntarily  cowered,  but  he 
gathered  himself  up  and  went  with  us  to  seats  at 
the  nearest  table.  While  we  were  doing  this  the 
habitues  of  the  place  greeted  us  with  this  song,  sung 

in  chorus  : 

"Oh,  la  la!  c'te  gueule — 
C'te  binette. 
Oh,  la  la,  c'te  gueule, 
Qu'ila." 

"What  are  they  saying?"  asked  Mr.  Thompkins  ; 
but  Bishop  spared  him  by  explaining  that  it  was  only 
the  latest  song. 

The  room  had  a  low  ceiling  crossed  by  heavy 
beams.  Wrought-iron  gas  lamps  gave  a  gloomy 
light  upon  the  dark,  time-browned  color  of  the  place. 
The  beams  were  loaded  with  dust,  cobwebs,  and 
stains,  the  result  of  years  of  smoke  and  accumula- 
tion. Upon  the  walls  were  dozens  of  drawings  by 
Steinlen,  illustrating  the  poems  of  low  life  written 
by  the  proprietor  of  the  cafe  ;  for  we  were  in  the  den 
of  the  famous  Aristide  Bruant,  the  poet  of  the  gutter, 
— Verlaine  had  a  higher  place  as  the  poet  of  the 
slums.  There  were  also  drawings  by  Cheret,  Willett, 
and  others,   and  some  clever  sketches  in   oil ;   the 

whole  effect  was  artistic.     In  one  corner  was  an  old 

286 


A   NIGHT   ON    MONTMARTRE 

fireplace,  rich  in  carvings  of  grotesque  heads  and 
figures,  grilled  iron-work,  and  shining  copper  vessels. 
The  general  impression  was  of  a  mediaeval  gun-room. 

Near  the  fireplace,  upon  a  low  platform,  was  a 
piano  ;  grouped  about  it  were  four  typical  Bohe- 
mians of  lower  Bohemia  ;  they  wore  loads  of  hair  ; 
their  faces  had  a  dissipated  look,  their  fingers  were 
heavily  stained  by  cigarettes  ;  they  wore  beards  and 
neglige  black  cravats.  These  were  all  minor  poets, 
and  they  took  their  turn  in  singing  or  reciting  their 
own  compositions,  afterwards  making  a  tour  of  the 
crowded  tables  with  a  tin  cup  and  collecting  the  sous 
upon  which  they  lived,  and  roundly  cursing  those  who 
refused  to  contribute. 

Bishop  was  so  delighted  with  the  pictures  on  the 
walls  that  he  proceeded  to  examine  them,  but  the 
bully  with  the  stick  thundered, — 

"  Sit  down  !"  and  shook  his  bludgeon  menacingly. 
Bishop  sat  down. 

Then  the  brute  swaggered  up  to  us  and  de- 
manded,— 

"What  the  devil  do  you  want  to  drink,  anyway? 
Speak  up  quick  !"  When  he  had  brought  the  drinks 
he  gruffly  demanded,  "Pay  up!"  Upon  receiving 
the  customary  tip  he  frowned,  glared  at  us  with  a 
threatening  manner,  and  growled,  "  Humph  !  c'est 
pas  beaucoup  !"  and  swept  the  money  into  his  pocket. 

"  Goodness  !   this  is  an  awful  place  !"   exclaimed 

Mr.  Thompkins  under  his  breath.      He  seemed  to 

fear  being  brained  at  any  moment.      Retreat  had 

been  rendered  impossible  by  the  locking  of  the  door. 

19  289 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

We  were  prisoners  at  the  will  of  our  jailer,  and  so 
were  all  the  others. 

The  great  Bruant  himself  sat  with  a  party  of  con- 
genial Bohemians  at  a  table  near  the  piano  and  fire- 
place ;  they  were  drinking  bocks  and  smoking  cigar- 
ettes and  long-stemmed  pipes.  On  the  wall  behind 
them  was  a  rack  holding  the  pipes  of  the  habitues  of 
the  cafe,  mostly  broken  and  well  browned.  Each 
pipe  was  owned  by  a  particular  Bohemian,  and  each 
had  its  special  place  in  the  rack.  The  other  tables 
held  a  general  assortment  of  lesser  Bohemians  and 
sight-seers,  all  cowed  and  silent  under  the  domina- 
tion of  the  bawling  ruffian  with  the  stick.  Whenever 
he  smiled  (which  was  rare,  a  perpetual  frown  having 
creased  a  deep  furrow  between  his  eyes)  they  smiled 
also,  in  great  relief,  and  hung  upon  every  word  that 
his  occasional  lapses  into  an  approach  to  good  nature 
permitted  him  to  utter. 

The  poets  and  singers  howled  their  productions  in 
rasping  voices,  and  put  a  strain  upon  the  strength 
of  the  piano  ;  and  the  minor  Bohemians  applauded 
them  heartily  and  envied  them  their  distinction. 

In  the  midst  of  this  performance  there  came  a 
knock  upon  the  door.  The  bully  walked  up  to  the 
wicket,  peered  out,  and  admitted  an  elderly  gentle- 
man, accompanied  by  a  lady,  evidently  his  wife. 
These  the  habitues  greeted  with  the  following  song : 

"  Tout  les  clients  sont  des  cochons — 
La  faridon,  la  faridon  donne 
Et  surtout  les  ceux  qui  s'en  vont — 
La  faridon,  la  faridon  donne." 
290 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 

The  gentleman,  somewhat  abashed  by  this  recep- 
tion, hesitated  a  moment,  then  sought  seats.  The 
two  had  hardly  seated  themselves  when  the  burly 
ruffian  with  the  stick  began  to  recite  a  villanous  poem 
reflecting  upon  the  chastity  of  married  women,  em- 
phasizing it  with  atrocious  side  remarks.  The  gen- 
tleman sprang  from  his  seat  in  a  rage  and  advanced 
threateningly  upon  the  brute,  who  stood  leering  at 
him  and  taking  a  firmer  hold  upon  his  stick ;  but 
the  visitor's  wife  caught  the  outraged  man  by  the  arm 
and  restrained  him.  A  wordy  war  ensued  (for  the 
gentleman  was  a  Frenchman),  in  which  the  choicest 
argot  of  Montmartre  and  La  Villette  was  exhausted 
by  the  ruffian.     He  closed  by  shouting, — 

"You  were  not  invited  to  enter  here.  You  asked 
the  privilege  of  entering ;  your  wish  was  granted. 
If  you  don't  like  it  here,  get  out !" 

The  gentleman  flung  down  a  franc  upon  the  table, 
the  bolts  were  withdrawn,  and  he  and  his  wife  passed 
out  while  the  roysterers  sang, — 

"  Tout  les  clients  sont  des  cochons,"  etc., 

amid  the  laughter  of  the  smaller  Bohemians. 

Aristide  Bruant  now  rose  from  his  table  and  strode 
to  the  centre  of  the  room.  A  perfect  silence  fell. 
He  is  rather  a  small  man,  slender,  and  of  delicate 
build  ;  he  has  a  thin,  sallow  face,  with  piercing  black 
eyes,  prominent  cheek-bones,  and  long  raven-black 
hair  falling  over  his  shoulders  from  beneath  a  broad 
black  slouch  hat  down  over  his  eyes.  His  unbut- 
toned coat  showed  a  red  flannel  shirt  open  at  the 

291 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

throat ;  a  broad  sash  was  about  his  waist ;  his 
trousers  were  tucked  into  top-boots, — the  ensemble 
reminding  one  of  Buffalo  Bill.  He  glared  sullenly 
round  upon  the  people,  and  then  sprang  lightly  upon 
a  table.  From  that  perch  he  recited  one  of  his 
poems,  selected  from  his  book  of  songs  and  mono- 
logues. It  does  not  bear  reproduction  here.  For 
that  matter,  being  written  in  the  argot  of  Mont- 
martre,  it  could  hardly  be  understood  even  by  French 
scholars  unfamiliar  with  Montmartre. 

Happily  Mr.  Thompkins  understood  not  a  word 
of  it,  smiling  perfunctorily  out  of  politeness  while 
Bruant  was  uttering  things  that  might  have  shocked 
the  most  hardened  Parisians.  There  were  several 
young  women  present,  and  while  Bruant  was  re- 
citing they  ogled  him  with  genuine  adoration.  The 
other  poets  hung  reverently  upon  his  every  word. 

A  mighty  burst  of  applause  greeted  the  finish  of 
the  recitation  ;  but  Bruant  slouched  indifferently  to 
his  seat,  ignoring  the  ovation.  The  bully  with  the 
stick  immediately  stopped  the  noise  by  yelling, 
"  Silence  !"  This  he  followed  up  with  the  contribu- 
tion-cup for  the  benefit  of  the  idol  of  Montmartre, 
With  the  cup  he  brought  the  volume  of  Bruant's 
poems  from  which  he  had  given  the  recitation, — a 
cheaply  printed  pamphlet.  No  one  dared  refuse  to 
buy,  and  no  change  was  returned.  Was  not  this  the 
great  Aristide  Bruant,  the  immortal  of  Montmartre  ? 

He  was  followed  by  other  poets  with  songs  and 

the  banging  of  the  piano.     We  presently  rose   to 

leave,  but  the  bully  shouted, — 

292 


ARISTIDE   BRUANT   RECITING   ONE   OF   HIS   VERSES 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 

"  Sit  down !  How  dare  you  insult  the  young 
poet  who  is  now  singing?"  We  submissively  re- 
sumed our  seats.  After  a  while,  in  a  lull,  we  respect- 
fully rose  again,  and  the  bully,  shouting,  "  Get  out !" 
unbarred  the  door  and  we  were  free. 

Mr.  Thompkins  was  more  deeply  puzzled  than  he 
had  been  before  that  night.  He  could  not  under- 
stand that  such  a  resort,  where  one  is  bullied  and 
insulted,  could  secure  patronage. 

"  But  this  is  Paris,  Mr.  Thompkins,"  explained 
Bishop,  somewhat  vaguely;  "and  this  particular 
part  of  Paris  is  Montmartre." 

Midnight  was  now  close  at  hand,  but  Montmartre 
was  in  the  height  of  its  gayety.  Students,  Bohe- 
mians, and  cocottes  were  skipping  and  singing  along 
the  boulevard, — singing  the  songs  of  Bruant.  The 
cafes  were  crowded,  the  theatres  and  concert  halls 
only  in  the  middle  of  their  programmes.  Cabs  were 
dashing  about,  some  stopping  at  the  Moulin  Rouge, 
others  at  the  Ely  see  Montmartre,  still  others  picking 
up  fares  for  more  distant  attractions. 

Bishop  halted  in  front  of  a  quiet-looking  house 
with  curtained  windows,  and  bluntly  asked  Mr. 
Thompkins  if  he  would  like  to  go  to  church.  Mr. 
Thompkins  caught  his  breath,  and  an  odd,  guilty 
look  came  into  his  face.  But  before  he  could  make 
reply  Bishop  was  leading  the  way  within.  The  inte- 
rior of  the  place  certainly  looked  like  a  church, — it 
was  fitted  to  have  that  significance.  The  cold,  gray 
stone  walls  rose  to  a  vaulted  Gothic  ceiling  ;  Gothic 

295 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 


pillars  and  arches  and  carved  wood  completed  the 
architectural  effect ;  statues  of  saints  appeared  in 
niches,  some  surmounted  by  halos  of  lighted  candles  ; 
and  there  were  banners  bearing  scriptural  mottoes. 
The  heavy  oaken  tables  on  the  floor  were  provided 
with  stiff,  high-backed  pulpit-chairs,  beautiful  in  color 
and  carving,  and  of  a  Gothic  type,  the  whole  scene 
suggesting  a  transept  of  Notre-Dame,  Mr.  Thomp- 
kins  had  reverently  removed  his  hat.  It  was  not 
long  afterward  that  he  quietly 
replaced  it  on  his  head.  No 
notice  was  taken  by  us  of  these 
movements. 

At  the  farther  end,  where  the 
church  altar  belonged,   was   in- 
deed a  handsomely  carved  altar. 
Above  it  sprang  a  graceful  arch, 
bearing     a    canopy    beautifully 
painted  in  blue,  with  yellow  stars. 
In  the  centre  was  a  painting  of 
Christ  upon  the  cross.    The  altar 
was   the   bar,   or    caisse.  of  this 
=  queer  cafe,  and  behind  it  sat  the 
vUl  {P^5^         ■  proprietress,  quieriy  knitting  and 
\  waiting  to  fill  orders  for  drinks. 

A   YOUNG   POET- LAUREATE  ^j^,  „  ^        .  ^, 

I  he  walls  ot  the  cate  were 
almost  entirely  covered  with  framed  drawings  by 
Rodel ;  all  were  portraits  of  well-known  Bohemians 
of  Montmartre  in  characteristic  attitudes, — the  star 
patrons  of  this  rendezvous.  Many  women  figured 
among  them,  all  Bohemian  to  the  bone. 

296 


A  NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 


This  was  the  Cafe  du  Conservatoire,  famous  for 
its  celebrities,  the  poets  of  Bohemian  Paris,  among 
whom  Marcel  Legay  is  eminent.  It  was  evident 
that  the  habitues  of  the 
Conservatoire  were  of  a 
much  higher  order  than 
those  whom  we  had  seen 
elsewhere.  They  looked 
more  prosperous,  were 
more  amiable,  and  acted 
more  as  other  people. 
True,  there  was  much  long 
hair,  for  that  is  a  disease 
hard  to  shake  off ;  but  when 
it  did  occur,  it  was  well 
combed  and  oiled.  And 
there  were  many  flat- 
brimmed  "plug"  hats,  as 
well  as  collars,  —  clean 
ones,  too.  an  exceptional 
thing  in  Bohemia,  launder- 
ing being  expensive.  But 
the  poverty-haunted  Bohemians  in  the  Soleil  d'Or 
are  more  picturesque.  That,  however,  is  in  the  Latin 
Quarter :  anything  exceptional  may  be  expected  at 
Montmartre. 

When  we  had  finished  our  coffee  we  approached 
the  patronne  behind  the  bar,  and  bought  billets  for 
the  Salle  des  Poetes  at  two  francs  each.  This  was 
a  large  room  crowded  with  enraptured  listeners  to 
Legay,  who  was  at  that  moment  rendering  his  song. 

299 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


LES   CLOCHES. 

"  Les  cloches  Catholiques, 
Du  haut  de  leur  beffroi, 
Voyaient  avec  effroi 
La  resurrection  des  Grandes  Republiques 
Les  cloches  revaient, 
En  quatre-vingt  onze, 
Les  cloches  de  bronze 
Revaient. ' ' 

Legay  had  quite  a  distinguished  appearance  as  he 
stood  singing  before  the  piano.  He  wore  a  gener- 
ously cut  frock-coat, 
and  his  waistcoat  ex- 
posed a  spacious  show 
of  white  shirt  -  front. 
His  long  hair  was  care- 
fully brushed  back,  his 
moustaches  neatly 
waxed ;  altogether  he 
was  dainty  and  jaunty, 
and  the  ladies  in  the 
room  made  no  conceal- 
ment of  their  adoration. 
The  accompanist  was 
a  picturesque  character. 
He  was  forty-five  or  fifty 
years  of  age ;  he  had 
long  white  hair  and  a 
drooping  moustache,  and  his  heavy  protruding  eyes 
were  suffused  with  tears  evoked  by  the  pathos  of  the 

song.     While  he  gazed  up  into  the  singer's  face  with 

300 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 


tear-filled  eyes  he  was  in  another  life,  another  world, 
where  there  was  nothing  but  music  and  poetry  un- 
alloyed to  constitute  his  heaven.  For  Legay  sang 
charmingly,  with  an  art  and  a  feeling  that  were  never 
obtrusive  ;  and  his  audience  was  aesthetic.  When 
he  had  finished  he  was  cheered  without  stint,  and 
he  clearly  showed  how  much  the  attention  pleased 
him. 

His  song  was  only  one  of  the  numbers  on  a  very 
interesting  programme.      This 
was  the  training  school  of  the 
young  poets  and  song-writers 
of    upper    Bohemia ;    this  was 
where   they   made  their  debut 
and  met  the  test  of 
that    discriminating 
criticism    which    de- 
cided   them    to   ad- 
vance     upon      the 
world     or     conceal  ^^p" 
themselves    for   yet 
a    while     from     its 
cruel     glare  ;      and 
were   they  not   but 
repeating     the     or- 
deal of  the  ancient 
Greeks,     out     of 
which  so  many  noble  things  passed  into  literature  ? 
These  critics  were  as  frank  with  their  disapproval 
as  generous  with  their  acceptance. 

Among   those  who  sang  were    Gustave    Corbet, 

301 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

Marius  Geffroy,  Eugene  Lemercier,  Xavier  Privas, 
Delarbre,  and  Henri  Brallet,  men  as  yet  unknown, 
but  likely  to  make  a  mark  under  the  training,  inspi- 
ration, and  severe  checks  of  the  Cafe  du  Conserva- 
toire. One  of  the  goals  for  which  these  writers  strive, 
and  one  that,  if  they  win  it,  means  to  them  recog- 
nition, is  to  have  their  poems  published  in  Gil  Bias, 
with  illustrations  by  the  peerless  Steinlen,  as  are  the 
works  of  Legay,  and  also  of  Bruant,  le  Terrible, 

Marcel  Legay  is  a  familiar  figure  on  the  boule- 
vards, where  his  dainty  person  is  often  seen  after 
nightfall,  hurrying  to  one  or  another  of  his  haunts, 
with  a  small  roll  of  music  under  his  arm,  and  his 
fluffy  hair  streaming  over  his  shoulders.  On  certain 
nights  of  every  week  he  sings  over  in  the  Latin 
Quarter,  at  the  Cabaret  des  Noctambules,  Rue 
Champollion,  near  the  Chapel  of  the  Sorbonne. 

The  other  singers  that  night  at  the  Cafe  du  Con- 
servatoire each  affected  his  peculiar  style  of  habit, 
gesture,  and  pose  that  he  deemed  most  fetching. 
The  entire  programme  was  of  songs :  hence  the 
name.  Cafe  du  Conservatoire, 

After  we  had  left.  Bishop  bought  some  Brevas 
cigars ;  thus  fortified,  we  headed  for  the  Moulin 
Rouge. 

It  was  evident  that  Mr.  Thompkins  had  reserved 

his    enthusiasm    for   the   great  dance-hall  of  Mont- 

martre, — Le  Moulin  Rouge, — with  its  w^omen  of  the 

half  world,    its   giddiness,    its    glare,    its    noise,   its 

naughtiness.     Here  at  last  we   should   find  all  ab- 

302 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 

sence  of  restraint,  posing,  sordidness,  self-conscious- 
ness, and  appeals  to  abnormal  appetites.  Mr. 
Thompkins  visibly  brightened  as  we  ascended  the 
incline  of  the  entrance  and  came  within  the  influence 
of  the  life  and  abandon  of  the  place.  Indeed,  it 
must  have  seemed  like  fairy-land  to  him.  The  soft 
glow  of  hundreds  of  lights  fell  upon  the  crowds  in  the 
ball-room  and  balconies,  with  their  shifting  streams 
of  color  from  the  moving  figures  of  dancing  women 
in  showy  gowns  and  saucy  hats,  and  its  many  chat- 
ting, laughing,  joyous  groups  at  the  tables  along  the 
passage  and  the  balconies,  enjoying  merry  little  sup- 
pers and  varied  consommations  that  kept  scores  of 
gar9ons  continually  on  the  move.  A  placard  an- 
nounced 

American  Bar  ;  American  and  English  Drinks 

— as  bald  and  unashamed  as  that.  Here  on  high 
stools,  American  free-lunch  fashion,  ranged  along  the 
bar,  were  English  and  American  tourists  and  French 
dandies  sipping  Manhattan  cocktails  with  a  cherry, 
brandy-and-soda,  Tom-and-Jerry,  and  the  rest.  Along 
the  walls  hung  vivid  paintings  of  some  of  the  famous 
dancing-girls  of  the  Moulin,  their  saucy  faces  half 
hidden  in  clouds  of  lacy  white  skirts. 

High  up   on  a  pretty  balcony  at  the  end  of  the 

huge   ball-room  were  the  musicians,  enjoying  their 

cigarettes  and  bocks  between  pieces.    A  small  stage 

occupied  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  where  a  light 

audeville  performance  had  been  given  ;  but  that  was 

20  305 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

all  over  now,  and  attention  centred  in  the  tables  and 
the  dancing. 

The  Moulin  Rouge  resembles  very  much  the  Bul- 
lier ;  but  at  the  Moulin  the  cocottes  are  much  more 
dashing  and  gaudy  than  over  in  the  Quartier,  because 
the  inspector  at  the  door  of  the  Moulin  maintains  a 
more  exacting  standard  on  the  score  of  the  toilettes 
of  the  women  whom  he  admits  free  of  charge. 
Women,  women,  women  !  There  seemed  no  end  of 
them  ;  and  each  was  arrayed  to  the  full  limit  of  her 
means.  And  there  were  French  dandies  in  long 
white  melton  coats  that  were  very  tight  at  the  waist, 
and  that  bore  large  brown-velvet  collars  ;  their  hair, 
parted  behind,  was  brushed  toward  their  ears  ;  they 
strolled  about  the  place  in  numbers,  twirling  their 
moustaches  and  ogling  the  girls.  And  there  were 
French  army  officers,  Martinique  negroes,  long- 
haired students  and  Montmartre  poets,  artists,  act- 
ors, and  many  three-days-in-Paris  English  tourists 
wearing  knickerbockers  and  golf-caps,  and  always 
smoking  bulldog  pipes.  There  were  also  two  parties 
of  American  men  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  and 
they  enjoyed  the  spectacle  with  the  natural  fulness 
and  responsiveness  of  their  soil.  For  the  Moulin  is 
really  now  but  a  great  show  place  ;  it  has  been  dis- 
covered by  the  outside  world,  and,  unlike  the  other 
quaint  places  mentioned  in  this  paper,  has  suffered 
the  change  that  such  contact  inevitably  imparts.  It 
is  no  longer  the  queer  old  Moulin,  genuinely,  spon- 
taneously Bohemian.     But  the  stranger  would  hardly 

realize  that;  and  so  to  Mr.  Thompkins  it  seemed  the 

306 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 

brilliant  and  showy  side  of  Bohemian  Paris.  By  rea- 
son of  its  change  in  character  it  has  less  interest  than 
the  real  Bohemian  Paris  that  the  real  Bohemians 
know,  enjoy,  and  jealously  guard. 

Many  light-footed  young  women  were  amusing 
circles  of  on-lookers  with  spirited  dancing  and  reck- 
less high-kicking  ;  and,  being  adepts  in  their  pecu- 
liar art,  were  so  flashing  and  illusory  that  an  attempt 
to  analyze  their  movements  brought  only  bewilder- 
ment. No  bones  seemed  to  hamper  their  swiftness 
and  elasticity.  The  flash  of  a  black  stocking  would 
instantly  dissolve  into  a  fleecy  cloud  of  lace,  and  the 
whirling  air  was  a  cyclone  ;  and  there  upon  the  floor 
sat  the  dancer  in  the  "  split,"  looking  up  with  a 
merry  laugh,  flushed  cheeks,  and  sparkling  eyes, 
twinkling  from  the  shadow  of  a  twisted  toque  ;  then 
over  her  would  sweep  a  whirlwind  of  other  dancers, 
and  identities  would  become  inextricably  confused. 

An  odd-looking  man,  with  a  sad  face  and  marvel- 
lously long,  thin  legs  in  tights,  did  incredible  things 
with  those  members  ;  he  was  merely  a  long  spring 
without  bones,  joints,  or  hinges.  His  cadaverous 
face  and  glittering  black  eyes,  above  which  rose  a 
top-hat  that  never  moved  from  place,  completed  the 
oddity  of  his  appearance.  He  is  always  there  in  the 
thickest  of  the  dancing,  and  his  salary  is  three  francs 
a  night. 

We  suddenly  discovered  Mr.  Thompkins  in  a 
most  embarrassing  situation.  A  bewitching  chemi- 
cal blonde  of  the  clinging  type  had  discovered  and 

appropriated  him  ;    she  melted   all    over   him,   and 

307 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

poured  a  stream  of  bad  English  into  his  ear.  She 
was  so  very,  very  thirsty,  she  pleaded,  and  Monsieur 
was  so  charming,  so  much  a  gentleman, — he  was 
beautiful,  too.  Oh,  Monsieur  would  not  be  so  unkind 
as  to  remove  the  soft,  plump  arm  from  round  his 
neck, — surely  it  did  not  hurt  Monsieur,  for  was  it  not 
warm  and  plump,  and  was  not  that  a  pretty  dimple 
in  the  elbow,  and  another  even  prettier  in  the  shoul- 
der ?  If  Monsieur  were  not  so  charming  and  gra- 
cious the  ladies  would  never,  never  fall  in  love  with 
him  like  this.  And  oh,  Monsieur,  the  place  was  so 
warm,  and  dancing  makes  one  so  thirsty  ! 

Mr.  Thompkins's  face  was  a  picture  of  shame  and 
despair,  and  I  have  never  seen  a  more  comical  ex- 
pression than  that  with  which  he  looked  appealingly 
to  us  for  help.  Suppose  some  one  in  the  hall  should 
happen  to  recognize  him  !  Of  course  there  was  only 
one  thing  to  do.  Mademoiselle  Blanche's  thirst  was 
of  that  awful  kind  which  only  shipwrecked  sailors, 
travellers  lost  in  a  desert,  and  cafe  dancing-girls  can 
understand.  And  so  four  glasses  of  beer  were  or- 
dered. It  was  beautiful  to  see  the  grace  and  celerity 
with  which  Mademoiselle  Blanche  disposed  of  hers, 
the  passionate  eagerness  with  which  she  pressed 
a  long  kiss  upon  Mr.  Thompkins's  unwilling  lips, 
and  the  promptness  with  which  she  then  picked 
up  his  glass,  drained  it  while  she  looked  at  him 
mischievously  over  the  rim,  kissed  him  again,  and 
fled. 

Mr.  Thompkins  sat  speechless,  his  face  blazing, 

his  whole  expression  indescribably  foolish.      He  vig- 

308 


A   NIGHT   ON   MONTMARTRE 

orously  wiped  his  lips  with  his  handkerchief,  and  was 
not  himself  again  for  half  an  hour. 

Innumerable  bright  little  comedies  were  uncon- 
sciously played  in  all  parts  of  the  room,  and  they  were 
even  more  interesting  than  the  antics  of  the  dancers. 

We  presently  strolled  into  the  garden  of  the 
Moulin,  where  a  performance  is  given  in  the  sum- 
mer. There  stood  a  great  white  sheet-iron  elephant, 
remindful  of  Coney  Island.  In  one  of  the  legs  was 
a  small  door,  from  which  a  winding  stair  led  into  the 
body  of  the  beast.  The  entrance  fee  was  fifty  cen- 
times, the  ticket-office  at  the  top  of  the  stair.  It  was 
a  small  room  inside  the  elephant,  and  there  was  a 
small  stage  in  the  end  of  it,  upon  which  three  young 
women  were  exercising  their  abdominal  muscles  in 
the  danse  du  ventre.  Mr.  Thompkins,  dismayed  at 
this,  would  have  fled  had  not  Bishop  captured  him 
and  hauled  him  back  to  a  conspicuous  seat,  where 
the  dancing-girls,  quickly  finding  him,  proceeded  to 
make  their  work  as  extravagant  as  possible,  throw- 
ing him  wicked  glances  meanwhile,  and  manifestly 
enjoying  his  embarrassment.  Of  course  the  dancers 
came  round  presently  for  offerings  of  sous. 

We  returned  to  the  dance-hall,  for  it  was  now 
closing-up  time,  and  in  order  to  feel  a  touch  of  kin- 
ship with  America,  drank  a  gin  fizz  at  the  American 
bar,  though  it  seemed  to  be  a  novelty  to  Mr. 
Thompkins. 

The  streets  were  alive  with  the  revellers  who  had 
been  turned  out  by  the  closing  of  the  cafes,  dance- 

309 


BOHEMIAN    PARIS 

halls,  and  theatres,  and  the  cries  of  cabbies  rose 
above  the  din  of  laughter  and  chatter  among  the 
crowds.  But  the  night  was  not  yet  quite  finished. 
Said  Bishop, — 

"We  shall  now  have  coffee  at  the  Red  Ass." 
That  was  below  the  Place  Pigalle,  quite  a  walk 
down  to  the  Rue  de  Maubeuge,  through  that  sud- 
denly quiet  centre  of  artists'  studios  and  dignified 
residences.  At  last  we  reached  L'Ane  Rouge, — the 
Red  Ass.  It  has  a  small  and  unassuming  front,  ex- 
cept that  the  window-panes  are  profusely  decorated 
with  painted  flowers  and  figures,  and  a  red  ass  peers 
down  over  the  narrow  door.  L'Ane  Rouge  has  no 
special  distinction,  save  its  artistic  interior  and  the 
fanciful  sketches  on  its  walls.  It  is  furnished  with 
heavy  dark  tables  and  chairs,  and  iron  grilled  into 
beautiful  scrolls  and  chandeliers, — like  the  famous 
Chat  Noir,  near  by.  In  fact,  L'Ane  Rouge  resembles 
an  old  curiosity  shop  more  than  anything  else,  for  it 
is  filled  with  all  imaginable  kinds  of  antiques,  black- 
ened by  age  and  smoke,  and  in  perfect  harmony. 
It,  too,  has  its  particular  clientele  of  Bohemians,  who 
come  to  puff  their  long  pipes  that  hang  in  racks,  and 
recount  their  hopes,  aspirations,  achievements,  and 
failures,  occasionally  breaking  into  song.  For  this 
they  bring  forth  their  mandolins  and  guitars,  and 
sing  sentimental  ditties  of  their  own  composition. 
There  is  a  charming  air  of  chez  soi  at  the  Red  Ass  ; 
a  spirit  of  good-fellowship  pervades  it ;  and  then,  the 
cafe   is   small,   cosey,   and   comfortable,   as  well   as 

artistic. 

310 


A   NIGHT  ON   MONTMARTRE 

It  was  in  a  lively  commotion  when  we  crossed  the 
threshold,  the  place  being  filled  with  litterateurs  of 
the  quarter.  A  celebration  was  in  progress, — one 
of  their  number  had  just  succeeded  in  finding  a  pub- 
lisher for  two  volumes  of  his  poetry.  It  was  a  nota- 
ble event,  and  the  lucky  Bohemian,  flushed  with 
money,  had  settled  his  debts  and  was  now  treating 
his  friends.  Although  we  were  strangers  to  him,  he 
cordially  invited  us  to  share  the  hospitality  of  the  oc- 
casion, and  there  was  great  applause  when  Bishop 
presented  him  with  a  Brevas  cigar. 

"  Bravo,  les  Anglais  !  Ce  sont  des  bons  types, 
ceux-la !"  and  then  they  sang  in  chorus,  a  happy, 
careless,  jolly  crowd. 

There  was  a  small,  thin  young  sketch  artist  making 
crayon  portraits  of  the  successful  poet  and  selling 
them  to  the  poet's  friends  for  fifty  centimes  apiece, — 
with  the  poet's  autograph,  too. 

In  response  to  a  call  for  une  chanson  Anglaise, 
Bishop  sang  "  Down  on  the  Farm"  as  he  had  never 
sung  it  before,  his  shining  top-hat  pushed  back 
upon  his  curly  hair,  his  jovial  face  beaming.  At  its 
conclusion  he  proposed  a  toast  to  the  successful 
poet,  and  it  was  drunk  standing  and  with  a  mighty 
shout. 

We  looked  in  at  the  Cabaret  des  Quat'z'  Arts, — 
a  bright  and  showy  place,  but  hardly  more  suggestive 
of  student  Bohemianism  than  the  other  fine  cafes  of 
the  boulevards. 

And  thus  ended  a  night  on  Montmartre.  We  left 
Mr.  Thompkins  at  his  hotel.     I  think  he  was  more 

313 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 


than  satisfied,  but  he  was  too  bewildered  and  tired 
to  say  much  about  it. 

Montmartre  presents  the  extravagant  side  of 
Parisian  Bohemianism.  If  there  is  a  thing  to  be 
mocked,  a  convention  to  be  outraged,  an  idol  to  be 
destroyed,  Montmartre  will  find  the  way.  But  it 
has  a  taint  of  sordidness  that  the  real  Bohemianism 
of  the  old  Latin  Quarter  lacks, — for  it  is  not  the 
Bohemianism  of  the  students.  And  it  is  vulgar. 
For  all  that,  in  its  rude,  reckless,  and  brazen  way  it 
is  singularly  picturesque.  It  is  not  likely  that  Mr. 
Thompkins  will  say  much  about  it  when  he  goes 
home,  but  he  will  be  able  to  say  a  great  deal  in  a 
general  way  about  the  harm  of  ridiculing  sacred 
things  and  turning  reverence  into  a  laugh. 


MOVING    IN   THE    QUARTIER    LATIN 


THE  Quartier  Latin  takes  on  unwonted  life 
about  the  fifteenth  of  July,  when  the  artists 
and  students  change  their  places  of  abode 
under  the  resistless  pressure  of 
a  nomadic  spirit.  Studios  are 
generally  taken  for  terms 
ranging  from  three  months  to 
a  year,  and  the  terms  generally 
expire  in  July.  The  artists  who 
do  not  change  their  residence 
then  go  into  the  country,  and 
that  means  moving  their  effects. 
It  is  a  familiar  fact  that  artists 
do  not  generally  occupy  a  high 
position  in  the  financial  world. 
Consequently  they  are  a  very 
practical  lot,  attending  to  their 
own  domestic  duties  (including 
washing  when  times  are  hard), 
and  doing  their  own  moving 
when  July  comes ;  but  this  is 
not  a  very  elaborate  undertaking, 
the  worse  of  them  for  that. 

One  day  in  July  Bishop  and  I  sat  in  our  window 
overlooking  the  court,  and  observed  the  comedy  of  a 

315 


A   STUDENT   MOVING 


No  one  thinks 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

student  in  the  throes  of  moving.  The  old  building  at 
the  end  of  our  court  was  a  favorite  abiding-place  for 
artists.  Evidently,  on  this  day,  a  young  artist  or  art 
student  was  en  demenagement,  for  his  household 
goods  were  being  dragged  down  the  stairs  and  piled 
in  the  court  preparatory  to  a  journey  in  a  small 
hand-cart  standing  by.  He  was  cheerfully  assisted 
by  a  number  of  his  friends  and  his  devoted  com- 
panion, a  pretty  little  grisette.  There  were  eight  of 
them  in  all,  and  their  laughter  and  shouts  indicated 
the  royal  fun  they  were  having. 

The  cart  was  one  of  those  voitures  a  bras  that  are 
kept  for  hire  at  a  neighboring  location  de  voitures  a 
bras  at  six  sous  an  hour.  In  order  to  get  locomo- 
tion out  of  it  you  have  to  hitch  yourself  in  the  har- 
ness that  accompanies  it,  and  pull  the  vehicle  your- 
self ;  and  that  is  no  end  of  fun,  because  your  friends 
are  helping  and  singing  all  the  way. 

Into  this  vehicle  they  placed  a  rickety  old  divan 

and  a  very  much  dilapidated  mattress ;  then  came  half 

a  sack  of  coal,  a  tiny,  rusty,  round  studio  stove  with 

interminable  yards  of  battered  and  soot-filled  pipe,  a 

pine  table,  two  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and  a  big  box 

filled  with  clattering  dishes,  kettles,  pots,  and  pans. 

On  top  of  this  came  a  thick  roll  of  dusty,   faded, 

threadbare   hangings    and    rugs,    and    the    meagre 

wardrobes  of  the   artist  and  the   gfrisette  ;    then    a 

number    of    hat-boxes,    after    which    Mademoiselle 

looked  with  great  solicitude.     Last  of  all  came  bulky 

portfolios  filled  with  the  artist's  work,  a  large  nuni- 

ber  of  canvases  that  were  mostly  studies  of  Made- 

316 


MOVING   IN  THE   QUARTIER   LATIN 

moiselle  au  natural,  with  such  accessories  as  easel, 
paint-boxes,  and  the  like,  and  the  linen  and  bedding. 

The  fat  old  concierge  stood  grumbling  near  by,  for 
the  ropes  were  being  tied  over  the  load,  and  she  was 
anxiously  waiting  for  her  dernier  adieu,  or  parting 
tip,  that  it  is  the  custom  to  give  upon  surrendering 
the  key.  But  tips  are  sometimes  hard  to  give,  and 
Bohemian  etiquette  does  not  regard  them  with  gen- 
eral favor.  After  the  load  had  been  made  snug,  the 
artist  approached  the  concierge,  doffed  his  cap,  bowed 
low,  and  then  in  a  most  impressively  ceremonious 
manner  handed  her  the  key,  avowed  that  it  broke 
his  heart  to  leave  her,  and  commended  her  to  God. 
That  was  all.  There  seems  to  be  a  special  provi- 
dence attending  upon  the  vocabulary  of  concierges 
in  their  hour  of  need.  The  shrill,  condemnatory,  in- 
terminable vocalization  of  this  concierge's  wrath  indi- 
cated specific  abilities  of  exceptional  power. 

But  the  artist  paid  no  attention.  He  hung  his 
coat  and  "plug"  hat  on  the  inverted  table-leg,  got 
between  the  shafts,  hitched  himself  in  the  harness, 
and  sailed  out  of  the  court,  his  friends  swarming 
around  and  assisting  him  to  drag  the  toppling  cart 
away.  And  this  they  did  with  a  mighty  will,  yelling 
and  singing  with  a  vigor  that  wholly  obliterated  the 
concierge's  noise.  The  little  grisette  closed  the  pro- 
cession, bearing  in  one  hand  a  lamp  and  in  the  other 
a  fragile  bust.  And  so  the  merry  party  started,  pos- 
sibly for  the  other  end  of  Paris, — the  greater  the  dis- 
tance the  more  the  fun.  They  all  knew  that  when 
the  voiture  had  been  unloaded  and  all  had  fallen  to 

317 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

and  assisted  the  young  couple  in  straightening  out 
their  new  home,  there  would  be  a  jolly  celebration 
in  the  nearest  cafe  at  the  moving  artist's  expense. 

So  the  start  was  made  fairly  and  smoothly  ;  but 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  crowd  was  so  high  and  the 
little  vehicle  was  so  top-heavy,  that  at  the  end  of  the 
passage  the  comedy  seemed  about  to  merge  into 
a  tragedy.  It  was  announced  to  all  the  court  in 
the  shrill  voice  of  the  concierge,  who  exultingly 
screamed, — 

"The  stove  has  fallen  out!  and  the  coal!  The 
things  are  falling  all  over  the  street !  Oh,  you  vil- 
lain !" 

To  the  movers  themselves  it  was  merely  an  inci- 
dent that  added  to  the  fun  r.nd  zest  of  the  enterprise. 

My  plans  carried  me  to  Concarneau,  and  Bishop's 
took  him  to  Italy,  where  I  would  join  him  after  a 
while.  And  a  royal  time  we  had  in  our  several 
ways.  The  autumn  found  us  fresh  and  eager  for 
our  studies  in  Paris  again,  and  so  we  returned  to 
hunt  a  studio  and  establish  ourselves  in  new  quar- 
ters. We  hid  stored  our  goods  with  a  kind  Ameri- 
can friend  ;  and  as  we  had  neither  the  desire  nor  the 
financial  ability  to  violate  the  traditions  of  the  Quar- 
tier,  we  greatly  scandalized  him  and  his  charming 
family  by  appearing  one  day  with  a  crowd  of  students 
and  a  voiture  a  bras  before  his  house  and  takinof  our 
effects  away  in  the  traditional  fashion.  Of  course 
our  friend  would  have  gladly  paid  for  the  transport 
of  our  belongings  in  a  more  respectable  fashion  ;  but 
where  would   have   been   the  fun   in   that?      I  am 

3'8 


MOVING   IN   THE   QUARTIER   LATIN 

pleased  to  say  that  with  true  American  adaptiveness 
he  joined  the  singing  and  yelling  crowd,  and  danced 


STUDIO   HUNTING 


a  jig  to  our  playing  in  our  new  quarters  after  a  gen- 
erous brew  of  punch  had  done  its  share  in  the  jollity 
of  the  event. 

Ah,  dear  old  Paris  !  wonderful,  bewildering  Paris  ! 
alluring,  enchanting  Paris  !     Our  student  years  are 
now  just  ended,  and  Paris  is  already  so  crowded  with 
21  321 


BOHEMIAN   PARIS 

workers  who  cannot  bear  to  leave  it  that  we  must 
seek  our  fortune  in  other  and  duller  parts  of  the 
world.  But  Paris  has  ineradicably  impressed  itself 
upon  us.  We  have  lived  its  life  ;  we  have  been  a 
part  of  its  throbbing,  working,  achieving  individu- 
ality. What  we  take  away  will  be  of  imperishable 
value,  the  salt  and  leaven  of  our  hopes  and  efforts 
forever. 


THE    END 


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